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[expression-of-doubt]

/siege.avi

It took forever to get anywhere in this city. The nearest anything was at least an hour away, and no one ever really stopped to think how it would take just as much to get back. You could spend your whole day going places and never get anywhere – god forbid you forget something back home.

Ivy’s been rolling around in her bed since seven in the morning – her alarm won’t even go off for another hour and a half. Used to be one of those kids that would wake up in the morning and couldn’t close their eyes until the sun had gone down. Something about not relying on a piece of tech to wake her up made her think, that there was some place for something natural in all of this modern living.

There was this spot on her wall, where she’d stretch out her arm and press her knuckle against it, as soon as she’d wake up. After years and years of built-up dead skin, oils, and other kinds of grime, it had gotten slightly yellower than the rest of the wall around it. Never gave it much thought, it just felt good to do.

There’d be this hazy cloud covering whichever parts of the human psyche were responsible for pleasantries, mannerisms, and brushing your teeth. If nothing else, she though that the way her hair would knot and tangle gave it the kind of natural volume that other people would be envious of. It was no secret that it just wouldn’t look the same if you’d try to get that effect on purpose.

She’d take a tin can—loosely covered with aluminium foil—out of the fridge, and scrape the chunky, gelatinous insides onto one of those children’s plates you’d find for real cheap. She’d crack open the kitchen basement window and place it on the windowsill every morning. Some neighbourhood cat would mop it up during the day, and she’d just feel good about it, even if she never really got to see it.

It was a small apartment, probably built during the early 1900s. Rent was cheap enough to where she could afford to live there alone, and the landlady was old enough to where she’d forget she was even there most of the time. Sometimes she’d pay half and promise the other half later; then she’d just pay regular rent the next month, knowing no one was keeping track. Ivy didn’t feel particularly good about taking advantage of an old lady like that, so she’d do her best to just help her out if she needed anything. Every once in a while, she’d even entertain the thought that maybe she just liked her enough to let that kind of stuff slide.

She’d stumble around her apartment in her underpants and a smelly t-shirt, lounging around and looking out the window at nothing in particular. Maybe all the visual stimuli from the outside world would jerk something in her head and snap her out of being so sleepy.

Getting dressed was less an issue of fashion, and more like three or four sets of outfits, constantly shifting and interchanging component parts, until one would need to go into the wash, or someone would start noticing the pattern. Yesterday she had worn the black shirt with the brown pants, so today it had to be the brown woollen sweater and the beige pants. Just enough variety to maintain the illusion of cleanliness, and just lazy enough to not really stress out about making conscious decisions.

Two things were constant, however: She had had this pair of flat, black leather ankle boots ever since she was in high school. They were in a desperate need of some shoe polish, since the crevasses in the leather had grown so winding and so deep that it gave them much more character than they warranted. It was a sentimental sort of possession – something which she thought defined her in the minds of others, ever since three separate people in the ninth grade told her they suited her. It was beyond the realm of coincidence at that point, so it must have been some sort of objective truth; and she would cling to that in the years to follow.

The other was a mottled gray coat. Healing isn’t when you don’t get mad anymore, it’s where you don’t think about them anymore. She just liked it, and it was pretty much the only coat she had. She was sure she had some other green one stored away somewhere, but never felt the urge to look for it. By the time this one would get dirty enough to wash, winter would already be over.

Twenty minutes – that was it – that’s all she needed. Out the door.

Following route to work wasn’t even a conscious process anymore. It had been about two or three years at this point, all the scenery and interesting landmarks along the way had lost their initial lustre and faded into one homogenous slide-show of familiar imagery. She’d walk out her own door, and the next step she’d take consciously would already be inside Oddities.

Every once in a while, something would take her out of this benign coma – like a space colonist jerked into premature defrost, light years away from the nearest habitable planet. One day, she’d see a bug – totally dead – stood on its hind legs, just standing in the middle of the pavement. Weird little thing.

Just the other day at the metro station, she had seen two grown adults – a man and a woman – beating the crap out of each other. Obviously everyone nearby was trying to pretend that all the shouting and the punching wasn’t actually happening. After all, who wanted something so vivid to start off the day off. It was just easier to think of them as mentally unstable, “uncitizenlike” individuals that deserve nothing short of strong medication, prison, or in some older women’s views – the death penalty.

No less than six police officers had gathered around them, but were either too afraid to intervene or had no intention of doing so to begin with. They’d just encircled them and tried to keep them out of view from all the commuters.

For a lot of people in the Capital, the ever-present violence that littered the city streets was a backdrop that one just got used to, much like all the other sights and sounds. A gun could go off, and most people would just clutch their pearls, close their eyes, count to ten, and hope it becomes someone else’s problem in the meantime. Then again, some people would also pull their phones out and start filming, hoping that that footage would be their ticket to internet stardom. Unless there was money to be made, no one did a damn thing.

These sorts of encounters would colour the rest of Ivy’s day, in one way or another.

Kie was also one of those encounters.

You have to understand that Eyes doesn’t talk to people – not really anyway. When he says you should come and meet someone, that’s unheard of; first, him knowing someone; second, letting you in on the fact that there exist a person who might know anything about him. He himself wanting to tell you about them? Just about as unlikely as it gets. Yet, here he was, talking to a girl, roughly Ivy’s age – not even in indentured servitude. To Ivy, she might as well have been the Devil.

Walking down the aisles and in between the shelves, more and more details would become clearer about this woman. Average height. Thin as a rake. Short white hair? Definitely a choice.

One of those really skinny girls that got to wear tight-fitting leather jackets over white shirts – you know the kind. Knee high lace up boots, and had just the right kind of round wire-frame spectacles. It was like staring Paul Allen’s card in the face.

The closer she got, the more Ivy appreciated how this chick accessorised. Two tiny black studs on each ear – maybe three millimetres at the most. Obviously, all black on all fronts, but still. She even had one of those plain, thin, black chokers, and a small string necklace to accent her long neck. She was confident, alright.

Although, the more Ivy stared at her, the more it became apparent. There was a certain lustre to that leather – a sheen, if you will. Not even a crease on it. Not the slightest whiff of second or third hand-me-down on her. It didn’t matter how many patches she would sown onto it, nor how much she fit the description; the air of nouveau riche playing the underdog part-time had already entered the room along with her. She was a poseur.

Ivy genuinely hoped that, in his old age, Eyes hadn’t gone senile enough to think there was a universe where the two of them could be friends, just because they were the same age. Most of the time, it wouldn’t even be worth taking her headphones off for someone like that.

She was looking over a hunting rifle. One of those bolt-action ones that no one but frustrated twenty-something-year-old men would buy, because it wasn’t automatic enough to mow down their entire office building. Everyone else just thought they sounded good or wanted to cosplay as the guy that shot JFK.

Gave the whole thing a proper once-over: bolt, barrel, rail, iron sights – all those parts Eyes insisted you’d remember, in case he wasn’t there to lead the conversation. That whole rack behind him was mostly suicide sticks that’d probably blow your hand off first if you tried pointing them at anything serious.

She turned to face Ivy with her big ol’ glasses, which might as well have turned the dinky rear sights into a 16x zoom scope. Just a big brown eye looking dead at you from a metre away.

Bang~…

No such luck this time. Not even a bullet in the chamber. Her finger would slowly let go of the trigger, and she’d raise and flick the bolt back with her thumb, before recentring her aim again.

You must be Ivy. I’ve heard a lot about you.

This is Kie – one of Silver’s girls.

How come we’ve never met then?

I usually work the shift you both don’t show up for. Nothing personal. Though, if I knew you were what was coming through that door, I might have made an effort to take evenings.

Pfft~

You will not seduce me…

The picture in Ivy’s head would become more and more complete, the more she moved and talked. Like a succubus, performing her song and dance. No wonder Silver hired her. Ivy just had to sit tight and wait out her whole routine.

Well, old man, that’s a fine 91/30. It’s definitely one of ours though, and it still has an Imperial Russia Proof Commission crest with the two-headed eagle, for some reason. I’d say you should keep this one nice and tucked away for me. I’ll come back for her as soon as I can.

Will do. You want it gift wrapped?

Tee hee~ You making fun of me, old man?

Only about twice a day.

Hey, that’s better than I usually get.

With a bow on top, please.

She’d writhe like a snake when she talked. Her voice was cute, in that way you felt was genuine, but if you knew what too look for, it came off as carefully rehearsed. To put it bluntly – she seemed like one of those girls that keep posting just turned eighteen for the fifth year in a row.

You know, I was thinking I might take Ivy over for a cup of tea tonight. If you’re there, you can have it tonight.

Really? I usually make a note not to accept gifts from older men, but I think I’ll make an exception for you~.

Oh, you’re still paying for it.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Ivy did enjoy going out for tea after work. It wasn’t so much that there was some tension between Eyes and her during work hours, but she felt like stopping to socialise with her boss during the day was a little bit odd and inappropriate. Ideologically even. She thought that there ought to be some distance between her professional and “off-the-clock” persona, however slight that might be.

In a country where most people were constantly on the brink of being medically classified as raging alcoholics, going out for tea was probably as new-age and bourgeois as you could get. It was almost seen as a symptom of some underlying sickness that prevented you from being a normal, well-functioning, useful member of society – i.e. plastered just about as soon as your backside hit the office chair in the morning. After all, why even bother drinking anything if it didn’t contain some sort of distilled spirits.

During one of their outings, Eyes had put it fairly simply, but Ivy barely remembered the exact wording. The gist of it was all of it having to do with sober conversations. She appreciated that Eyes saw value in having them too, which was partially why she thought they got along so well. There was comfort in the knowledge that the person beside you was also playing with a full deck; that there was some effort being put into keeping the conversation going. That, and tea as a drink had a sort of blandness to it that placed it somewhere on the inoffensive side as far as drinks go. The only way you could go overboard with it was if you just kept trying to get into the expensive blends, and trying to read something more into what was just leaves in hot water.

Every once in a while someone would walk into Silver’s and order something they’d clearly read about on the internet. You could tell, because they all made an attempt to show everyone in the shop that they’d done their homework. They’d sip loudly, trying to turn the menial amount of liquid into some fine mist, which they’d work around their mouths and attempt to look vaguely puzzled as they did so. Words like “infusion” and “texture” would make their way into what passed for casual conversation, and then they’d mercifully leave. Silver entertained these disenfranchised men for as long as their little performance would last, and then smirk to herself when she got to hand them the receipt for the “incredibly flavourful blend of acidic and earthy textures” they’d just guzzled. Most of them would never come back, because – Ivy assumed – they had conquered the ultimate goal of getting to talk to a woman about their new character-defining point of expertise after only a week of practice. Silver would say it had more to do with the mental maths of buying a cheap bottle of fancy-looking booze, as opposed to paying for one pot of enthusiast-class leaf water – one of the two at least made some dent in the overarching goal of looking like you were worth something.

Ivy and Eyes, on the other hand, would just make do with a pot of peppermint tea. Maybe if it was a really rough day, they’d go for an Earl Grey, but for the most part, they weren’t too particular on what they were having. Every once in a while, Silver would treat them to some new weird thing she’d ordered off the internet; usually on days where her and the girls didn’t have a lot to do, and they could afford to let loose a little bit. Ivy really enjoyed being there on those days, because they all seemed like good people. Silver’s girls would tell stories of weird clients, and they’d all have a good laugh about it. Meanwhile, Eyes and Silver would get that look on them, where you could tell they’d known each other for years. They’d get lost in conversation about the good ol’ times, and completely forget there’s a bunch of young people sitting around eavesdropping on every word. Those were the kind of evenings that made you forget there was a whole city outside, where every minute someone was beating their wife and kids to death over something trivial. Ivy couldn’t help but think about it sometimes, as she’d stare out the front window. Though, for most people that is a very hard through to come by when there’s a young attractive woman playing with her hair right across from you.

The gap between this day and the next was where everything in the world would happen, just outside of everyone’s notice. Every new day, Ivy’d look for small ways keep herself from going stir-crazy, trapped in a loop of mundanity, violence, and employment. She’d step outside Silver’s and stand on the snow-covered street, tugging at her inner coat pocket, trying to find her pack of cigarettes. It was a habit she’d picked up in high school after a rough break-up with someone entirely inconsequential in the grand scheme of her life. Nonetheless, she'd have a cigarette every once in a while, even if she didn’t really want to be dependent on them.

In these small moments, she’d become too introspective for her own good, and she knew it too well to let it get to her. It was an excuse to step away from all those people and just be herself for a moment. She’d take a drag and look outwards toward the dark figures walking the parks and the streets, backlit by passing headlights. The last tolls of the local church bell would echo through the air. It was beautiful, but all she wanted to do was go home.

The little bell on the door behind her would chime, and she’d turn around only to see Kie’s white head of hair, making her way out, also rummaging through her inner coat pockets. Without any real prejudice Ivy’d extend her hand and flick her little plastic lighter between her fingers. Kie’d look up at her and give her a coy smile, lighting her cigarette.

You having any fun in there, Ivy?

Yeah, I just needed a smoke.

Yeah, me too.

…

So, what do you do for fun?

There’s probably no need to mention this, but Kie is being just a little bit pathetic. Ivy thinks so, at least.

People their age have been running to numbers on every possible combination of question to start a conversation off with, and the greatest minds of their generation had come up with amounted to: “Hey, what’s up?” followed by “Hey, nothing much. You?”, closed off with “Nothing much either.”

It’s the kind of sequence that communicates nothing about the sender or the recipient, but still, in the brief time it takes to write out, still counts as having a conversation. This drove Ivy mad.

Kie, I don’t--

Babe, it’s not that serious. I’m just playing nice.

She’d flick her lighter and lean back against the brick facade of the building. For a moment there, her voice was different than what she’d heard earlier in the day. A little bit lower, very much no longer trying to get in between her legs. And what she’d said – now, that had a little bit of bite to it. Maybe she wasn’t as much of a lost cause, as she’d thought.

Yeah, alright… I dunno, I’m into Japan, I guess.

Like, the band?

No, the country. I wanted to study the language in uni, but I couldn’t get in, because everyone was going for it.

So, what did end up with?

Social and Cultural Anthropology of East and South Asia.

Ouch.

Yeah... What about you?

Never went. Started working odd jobs as soon as I turned sixteen and saw no reason to keep wasting my time.

Yeah, I can feel that. I’m two years in, and I’ve yet to hear anything that I can’t just find online. I’m thinking of dropping out.

Kie would smirk.

You’re a smart girl. I think whatever life throws at you, you’ll end up alright.

You’re a little bit quick to judge, aren’t you?

I know it when I see it. You don’t get to rake in this much in tips without having an eye for people.

How long have you been working for Silver?

I don’t anymore. It’s been a couple of years. I just come by every once in a while to reminisce about the good ol’ times, and Silver lets me work some tables, because she knows I miss it.

She seems to like you.

Yeah, she does. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m good at what I do, or because she actually does, but I guess it doesn’t matter either way in the long run.

What do you do now?

That… Maybe I’ll tell you another time. I gotta get back in. If you want, I’ll save you the trouble and tell them you said good night.

Ivy didn’t know what to think of her anymore. The mask had obviously slipped, but it wasn’t out of carelessness. She wanted her to see this side of her for whatever reason. The faint orange glow of her cigarette would light up her face and reflect off of her glasses. She had a serious, but still playful, kind of expression on her face. Ivy could tell that every passing second of indecision was giving her leverage for whatever she was about to say next. Now, she was interesting.

Yeah, I think I’ll take you up on that. Give Silver my love.

Good night, Ivy. See you tomorrow.

‘Night. See you.

Kie’d crush the butt of her cigarette with the tip of her boot and slip her hands back into her pockets. She’d give Ivy one last glance before going back in. Ivy’d sit there for a moment, thinking about herself. Nothing good came to mind, so she took one last puff out of her cigarette and put it out on the nearest brick.

Ivy would walk through Oddities’ doors again in the morning, seemingly left alone to her own devices. The store lights were off, so Eyes must have had another long night after she’d left Silver’s, which meant that Ivy had the store to herself for the next couple of hours. She could turn on the lights, but that created the impression that the place was open, and accepting clients, with someone ready and willing to serve them – none of which applied at the moment.

She’d walk towards the tail-end of the store, to where she’d hang her coat and run her fingers across the vinyl records, all neatly arranged against the back wall of the shop. She’d start flipping through the jazz section. It was the kind of mood she was in. She didn’t recognise most of the names on the sleeves, but ultimately went with something that looked simple. The hi-fi system would begin to crackle across the space as soon as she powered it on – the thing must have been at least thirty, maybe forty years old at this point. As soon as she dropped the needle, the whole space began to echo with a warm bassy rhythm.

She’d turn the knob on Eyes’ little radio – obviously no luck with getting anything other than the news. He’d been tinkering with that thing for what felt like months at this point, but his white whale (having more than one station) kept slipping away. He was hell-bent on fixing it himself, but was probably too proud to admit he had no clue how to do it.

The news was just about a 24/7 feed of the latest murders and traffic accidents, which would more often than not be bookended by some really pathetic attempt to raise the mood with some feel-good story. Some 10-year-old with terminal cancer repainting park benches with what was left of its chemo money. That and the advertisements for capitalites’ three favourite things – quick loans, indigestion pills, and booze.

Ivy would spend her mornings lounging on one of the old couches littered around the place. If Eyes was here, there’d usually be something to talk about, but now, she’d just lay there and look at the ceiling for a bit. Every once in a while, she’d get up, shuffle some boxes around, put some of the items on the shelves, and go kick back again.

It would give her a start, but Ivy could see him from the back of the store with the edge of her eye. The first client of the day would be a policeman. Him in his bluish uniform, pacing slowly down the middle aisle. She hadn’t even heard him come in, but she through she ought to get up and try to be useful.

Suddenly, there’d be a loud crash, as the vitrine next to Ivy shattered into an explosion of small shards, all streaming down onto the floor. A stinging pain would run across her cheek, along with an immense sense of heat. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just seen something fly by her. She almost couldn’t believe it.

Perhaps if there was more time, she would have had time to mull it over in her head—figure out what it was—but all she could hear was the sound of tens of cars screeching to a halt outside the front of the store, tens of boots clacking against the concrete pavement. From there things escalated very quickly.

She hadn’t seen it at first, but the man had walked in with his gun drawn and seemingly intent on using it as soon as possible. Running her hand across her cheek, she’d wince at the stinging pain, but also slowly come to the realisation that she was bleeding. Panic would start to take hold, and she’d crouch behind the haphazardly arranged, loose boxes, filled with cheap trinkets. This guy was probably some psycho who stripped a beat cop, and was now going around playing god. Her chest would tighten, and her breath would become shorter and more frequent, as her fight or flight would start demanding she spend less time thinking and more time staying alive.

Come out with your hands where I can see them! This is a special operation. You are accused of the crime of high treason, by explicit order of the Minister of the Interior and the Prosecutor General of the Republic. We are authorised to use lethal force on you and anyone who might be suspected of being an accomplice.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

You! Show yourself!

The fuck I am! You pigs shot at me!

Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to remain calm. This is a special operation, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us, or we will be forced to terminate you with extreme prejudice.

You’re going to try and kill me!? What the fuck is wrong with you!

Alright, have it your way.

The pig would wave above his head and soon after two more policemen would enter the store, armed with service pistols, cautiously scanning the place and its unfamiliar layout.

Streaks of blue light would illuminate the inside of the shop’s walls with an intense strobe, as the emergency lights on the vehicles outside spun. A force of what seemed like thirty or forty, heavily armed men were gathering and deploying all manners of barricades and other installations. Two floodlights would quickly emerge, and the long shafts of light would beam through the front windows, partially obscured by the lettering on the storefront.

Ivy considered it for a moment – walking out and surrendering to these animals. The thought disgusted her, but it felt like the only reasonable thing to do. But then, briefly, a shred of doubt cleared her mind. They were shooting on sight. Who’s to say they wouldn’t just drive a bullet through her head the moment she walked into the light. She’d fucked up by even talking – now they knew she was in here, and that she was somewhere in the back.

The pressure in her chest was killing her. Her heart could almost burst a whole through her ribcage and fly out. She was confused to the point of tears, but was holding them in. The only thing she could think about is how she just wanted to walk out that front door and try and take the whole day from the top.

All the rifles and small firearms were all the way on the other side of the store, and even if she did get to them, Ivy didn’t know what good they’d do her. What was she going to do – shoot three cops, without all of their friends noticing and slip out the back?

She could hear every footstep, the wooden flooring creaking under their individual weight. Each one of them was walking down one of the three lanes, kicking through the piles of useless junk and stacked up boxes. Thank god they’d restocked yesterday, or she might as well have already been dead. Slowly, she moved through the shadows behind one of the glass-topped counters, where they’d usually display jewellery and the like.

The more she sat there, the more she thought that she had to do something. Even if she ended up dying for it, at least she’d kick the bucket, knowing that she hadn’t gone without a fight – she just didn’t know how. A clandestine upbringing, fourteen years in education, and a functional social life hadn’t prepared her for situations where droves of armed men showed up, intent on killing her. Through tears and gritted teeth she’d beat herself up for being so stupid. She felt utterly powerless, So incapable of doing anything.

For a brief moment, she would close her eyes and hear the music playing over the shop speakers. It had assumed an ironic kind of calmness, in the face of circumstance:

♫ It's a lazy afternoon ♫ ♫ And the beetle bugs are zoomin' ♫ ♫ And the tulip trees are bloomin' ♫ ♫ And there's not another human in view ♫ ♫ But us two ♫

The men were slowly making their way towards her, the first of which was already turning the corner. There was only a counter separating them from her.

In that instant, Ivy’s tears dried up, and she got up from behind the counter. Her eyes filled with nothing but disdain for them and their pathetic institution. It was dark, but she could see the officer in the middle, she could see his eyes, and saw nothing in them, but her own reflection. His lipless mouth already barking orders.

Turn around with your hands behind your head! Do it now!

Ivy hadn’t done that much sensible thinking in the last couple of minutes, but there was one thing she’d always wanted to do in a situation like this. Perhaps it was her quietly accepting her situation, or maybe just a fantasy she’d kept to her self over the years.

Her lips puckered, and after briefly tonguing the insides of her mouth, she spat straight into the man’s eyes.

Without hesitation, the man raised his weapon and pointed it straight at Ivy’s forehead. His finger, already curling around the trigger.

Bang~…

His head ruptured open like a melon, scattering into a fine mist of blood and giblets, radiating in every direction.

Ivy couldn’t even feel anymore. The two other men looked at their colleague with with abject horror. Every single cop sitting outside just saw that.

Maybe it was her fight-or-flight, but Ivy dove behind the counter. A hail of bullets began flying through the front windows, obliterating the lettering, and shredding everything in their line of sight. The sound of automatic fire drowned out every other conceivable sound. The furniture exploded into a shrapnel of woodchips and sawdust. The displays flung shards of glass in every direction. The books and couch cushions filled the air with torn bits of paper and seventy-year-old goose feathers. The electronics fizzled and sparked, creating several small fires, which began to fill the room with smoke.

The two remaining policemen burst into clouds of red viscera, as their bodies were torn apart by hundreds of their colleagues’ bullets. Ivy laid on her back, scared stiff, as bullets flew above her, and eradicated everything in sight. Her gut reaction was to scream, but all she could do was blink.

These lunatics were killing their own.

Eventually, they either ran out of bullets or decided enough was enough.

As the dust settled, Ivy pulled herself up. As the pulsating sound of her own heart stopped drowning everything out, she could hear the blaring of every fire and security alarm in the building, echoing in unison. The orange glow of the flames now twinkling through the holes in the counter.

Writhing at her feet, one of the men dragged himself behind the counter, struggling to even lift his arm, but fighting to point his gun straight at her. Gurgling in his own blood, in a last act of defiance, or perhaps obedience, he fired. The bullet ricocheted near her head, but ultimately missed its mark. All Ivy could do is stare at him with a blank expression.

What kind of hatred could drive a man to do that? You’re dying... What’s so important that it even overcame self-preservation, overcame pain.

Ivy slowly crawled towards him and extended her arm. She wrenched the gun from his hand, despite his futile resistance. Shuffling back, putting her back towards wall, she looked at the man through the iron sights of his own gun.

Three.

She fired three shots into his skull, partially destroying his face.

She felt nothing.

The droves of men outside began vaulting over the broken glass of the storefront and approaching her location. By the time they got there, she’d fainted, slumped against stacks of the now fractured vinyl collection.

When she came to, she was already incarcerated in one of the Capital’s most cruel prisons. Her crimes – accomplice in treason, and nine charges of murder, three for each of the men inside Oddities that day.

In the next two months, there wouldn’t be a conscious moment where Ivy wouldn’t feel pain. She’d endure beatings from sunrise till sunset. They’d drive knees into her guts, burry their knuckles into her face. They’d knock her to the floor, and punt her, until there was no more air in her lungs for her quivering breath. She’d recoil, convulse, give up, beg, bleed – nothing mattered. All they wanted was something she didn’t have.

Ivy used to believe that there was an inherent propensity for violence in all living beings, some were just better at keeping it tucked away. Eventually, like any muscle, it would atrophy when left unexercised for too long.

Hers might have just been torn open.

Next chapter: Late April.

[expression-of-doubt]

/eco-terrorism.html

This week, the Capital’s roads were blocked by several fractured protest groups, of what could frankly be described as genuine eco-terorrists. All of them chanting the same inane—and frankly illiterate—message: We don’t want concrete, we want trees!

Pet-owners, unemployed parents of kindergarten-age children, street hoodlums, elderly women, and various other undesirables were out on the streets, begging someone from the fourteenth provisional caretaker government to do something about their inter-apartment courtyard, which usually serves as nothing more than a public lavatory to all the stray homeless and animals in a seven kilometre radius.

Talk about complaining to a wall! These people are so out of touch with reality that they think there’s enough funds left untouched in the yearly parks and public works budget to bankroll all the concrete needed to glaze over their little patch of highly-fertilised shrubbery.

We sent one of our journalists over there to check on the situation, and he couldn’t get there because the roads were blocked! Not only are these people a nuisance to society at large, but they’re also against the freedom of the press!

In order to get this news out to you as quickly as possible, we have signed off on an unedited “free-form” essay by one of our interns, describing the experience on their commute back from work. Reader discretion is advised, as none of what follows has been altered, proof-read, or fact-checked by the editorial staff of our agency, and may be of dubious quality, unrepresentative of the journalistic standard we otherwise aim to uphold:

“I stood there, in the middle of the six empty lanes – a main road, leading to all corners of the Capital, thinking to myself how eerie the whole situation was. Perhaps even this one led to Rome. Hours before, the streets were filled with the hustle and bustle of internal combustion – the inertia of modern living, reaching its apex as rush hour came to a head. The absence of modern life. Now, all of that has grown silent. Several kilometres of empty void, leading all the way to the horizon. What a lonely sight it is indeed to walk.

The first step off of the pavement onto the empty lanes was like a leap of faith. As if at any moment the blockade would end and traffic would be let loose, like raging rapids bursting forth from a rupturing dam. It was a forbidden kind of step, which must have been what Lance Armstrong and the other Apollo 11 astronauts felt when their took their first steps on the moon. I couldn’t help but be unnerved. Seven lanes – one for each day of the week. A domain of two-ton machines, now encroached and tread upon by a softer, more tensile creature.

The crowd was being corralled, like a herd of sheep, by a pack prairie dogs, wearing tactical vests. Their unshakable resolve bent into allowing public transport and ambulances to go through. Perhaps the loss of human life was just about the only thing they valued more highly than the nature they were afraid of losing. If you could filter out the air-horns and the chanting, you could almost hear the silence that surrounded this singular point in time.

For minutes at a time, I’d walk in any given direction, without ever really reaching anywhere. It was a road that segregated those on it from the rest of the environment that physically surrounded them. An empty country, where everyone had left, and only the sick and the impoverished remained. A land where blood ran thinner than water.

It reminded me of that dreaded evening – Christmas Eve. A solitary invitation, almost given in jest, just some days ago. All of my brothers and sisters were no longer there, now living lives abroad, carrying different foreign-sounding surnames. All the grandparents and uncles you liked so much as a child – now dead from disease; rarely old age. All that remained were the few survivors, who never cared much about the family to begin with. People you’d try not to think about, but nonetheless receive nothing but love from. Perhaps they expected you to decline politely. You had heard them saying how once one of them left, the others would soon follow. How the family had already fallen apart, with them desperately pulling it together out of nothing but sentiment. Now we all got to look at it. All the cripples, the ill, the negligent, all the corpse flies already buzzing around the room.

You’d stand there among them, eating, hoping that you’d soon be aboard the next bus home. They’d light candles, hold hands, sing songs, say a prayer. You’re much too far from that now. Just keep putting bread in your mouth. Smile coyly when someone mentions your name. Time would pass. Then, they’d mention the dead. They’d mention those who were absent. A dour look would appear on everyone’s face, and you’d be expected to assume it also. They’d given up on a life beyond that with those who were no longer here. No new memories to be had – only old ones, to keep you company.

Someone would eventually make an excuse to leave, and you’d take the opportunity to tag along. Everyone looks at you, like you’ve taken something away from them. They say they are happy, but they know they probably won’t see you again. You don’t want to feel this guilt again. You have a duty to yourself, first and foremost. Who are they to say where you should and shouldn’t be? Must your own will be something you have to fight over? What a sad life it must be, to be so dependent on others. Why bother?

Preserve gardens and playgrounds for whom? There are no children of tomorrow. No one is going to want to bring a child into this place. Might as wall pave it all with concrete, so that at least when you look at it, you will know at a glance what this town is really like. An unassuming grey-coloured animal, rotting by the side of the road, filled to the brim with the most corrupting poison.”

These green-thumbed (if not green-headed) people would have you think that these government institutions are to be used like a bat wrapped in in razor wire. A tool to get what you want, regardless of how inane that ask might be. Institutions are to be used like every other tool in rhythmic gymnastics – hoops, ropes, ribbons, balls.

Public transport services were impaired by the accumulated horde, and delayed many commuters’ rides home, after providing value to their employers and their country via taxation.

If nothing else, these protest will serve their intended social function of allowing all these charlatans to all see each other one last time before getting arrested.

With people such as these, there is no hope for the Capital. They can't even be called citizens. They like to be lied to, stolen from, they like to be ruled by some higher power. And anyone who demands actual justice falls victim to their childish behaviour.

To discuss the topic further, tonight we have in the studio with us, one of the current senior inspectors staunchly defending the Capital, and a personal friend of mine – Sudislav Orlov. Merry Christmas, Mr. Inspector – how was your winter break?

Merry Christmas. First of all, thanks for having me back. Always great to be in good company, and in front of our viewers and listeners.

Christmas was… eventful, to say the least. Seeing family is always a challenge in our field, since we spend so much time out of the year working. It’s nice to sit down and have a nice normal holiday, every once in a while, with the people who really care about you. You could say that my gift this year was finally some peace and quiet, even if it wasn’t exactly what I’d said I wanted.

Inspector, what is your take on these so called citizens terrorising the streets?

The mayor said that he has no problem with them doing the rounds, so neither do I. He even said he might well go join them tonight, but knowing him, I think he’ll quickly find that he’s a very busy man when it comes down to that sort of stuff. You don’t know how much would I like to lock him up for obstruction of justice. (he laughs)

You’ve notoriously been pretty harsh with protest groups in the past. What would you say has changed in the past years when it comes to controlling crowds like this?

Well, first of all, they’re pretty lucky I’m no longer on the beat, because if it was me and my boys back in the day, they’d all be locked up and driven off before the first car coming in could brake for the stoplights. That and those were different times. People are a lot softer nowadays, and it doesn’t take that much beating to get them off the streets. The kids coming out of university would like to go home and bitch and moan to their friends online and on their phones than go out in the streets and disrupt traffic. We see that as a success on our part in keeping the peace, and things churning smoothly.

But this protest is still ongoing, isn’t it?

It is, but you’d be shocked to see what I’m seeing. Just today they were blocking the streets again, doing their usual routine. This time, however, you could barely call it a protest. Their numbers are dwindling. Even they can’t be bothered to get off their asses and show up anymore. It’s not new and shiny anymore – now it’s a commitment, and all that’s left are the people who really care. Eventually, someone on the organisational side will set a date and time for the next one, and no one will show up. They’ll be sitting there, alone, in the middle of a busy road, shouting at the top of their lungs, about how this or that isn’t right. No one will hear them.

They might even get hurt.

We wouldn’t want that to happen, now, would we?

Of course not.

So I’ll be there, when it happens. I’ll walk up to them, and personally lead them away in a nice warm place, where we won’t have to worry about how to get back home, which road to take, or about anyone getting hurt.

I think that’s a wonderful sentiment to end off on. I’m afraid that all the time we have tonight. Thank you for your time, inspector.

The pleasure is all mine.

—————————————————————–

> Capitalite (unregistered) says: Of course, these people are idiots who don't even understand what a growing disaster the protests are becoming! These elementalists don't realize that concreting, wherever it is, is gradually destroying them, along with nature!

> justpassingby says: The mayor should be careful with showing his support so that he doesn't get a "visit"......

> Fbone says: Such malice and vulgarity could only be born by a degenerate who doesn't even understand what all of this will lead to! This is all a government scenario! There’s no one left in this country anymore!

>Browinov says: Wonderful Orlov! The only one. Bow. History will speak for itself.

Next chapter: Late February, hopefully.

[expression-of-doubt]

/the-LAST.mkv

The thing about living in hiding was that every once in a while, you have to go outside. Years of excessive smoking had almost made it impossible to quit, and when that last cigarette left its pack, Eyes knew it was only a matter of time before everything got worse.

There was a certain comfort in knowing that he didn’t have to leave for anything. Groceries, toilet paper – all taken care of by some faceless figure. A kind of living where all the thinking about bare necessities is outsourced to someone else.

It would make him think about his youth – everyone’s youth really. You are born into this world as a soft, useless creature, possessing what passes for infinite potential. For two decades, you are coddled and provided for. Eventually, however, comes the rude awakening. No kid would ever fret over cigarettes. That was something exclusively in the realm of adults. Some would even become adults sooner than necessary. Though, the thought was so morbid it caught him off guard. Too close to home, perhaps. He tried thinking of something else.

He felt stupid for putting his neck on the line, for something that was—for all intents and purposes—taking away more than it was giving. Then he would think about the taste, the smell of them; all those concerns would melt away. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he even liked the look of it. He’d stand there, in front of a mirror, thinking; his last cigarette filling the room with smoke. His mind wouldn’t scoff at some slow jazz to complete the picture. He could hear it, even if it wasn’t really there.

Slowly and laboured, he would put on a coat. Thick and woollen, much like his gloves, his hat – anything to stave off the frosty winds, which made the walls of his cabin creek for hours at an end every day. How long had it been? Never mind that.

He’d unlatch the door, and for a brief moments those bellowing winds would intrude upon his domain. Wisps of snow would tumble through the air, leaving streaks of snowflakes, radiating from the threshold. Slammed shut behind him, he would now enter a field of pure white. By his guess, he had just about five minutes left before that cigarette was nothing more than a butt.

At moments like this, every time he did this, he would ask himself why he chose some godforsaken tundra, instead of some other more moderate climate. Those thoughts were always short-lived. He hated the sun and he knew it. Cold was the way to go. It’s where anyone, who is in hiding, seemingly wants to ever go. Nothing but lichens and moss to keep you company. Though, nothing made the blizzards easier to bear.

He’d take his time, walking slowly through the unbeaten snow. One foot after the other. Town wasn’t too far away. If he kept at it, he’d be there in no time. Never was too big of a settlement anyway: one small grocer’s, a restaurant, doubling as a coffee shop in the mornings, and a seedy bar late at night. Nothing more than twenty or so houses, all feeding in to some industrial complex some five kilometres down the road.

…

Eyes walked into the local convenience store. The chime on the door made a pleasant ring, if one was able to hear it over the howling blizzard. The closing of the door muffling it instantly, making room for the sound of the world’s tinniest radio. The inside was pleasantly air conditioned – an isolated pocket of warmth in a desolate wasteland.

On the counter was a man, not too dissimilar in age to Eyes. Somewhere in his late 50s – mid 60s. They knew each other. Some of the money Eyes had paid was going towards the shipments he’d receive on a weekly basis. Small creature comforts from the Capital making their way onto the shipping listings for no apparent reason.

Well, if it isn’t my most loyal customer! Been a month or two? As you can see, we’ve taken your feedback to heart and have made the appropriate changes to the backing track for your shopping experience.

Did you think you’d get one by me, by playing the latest hits? Besides, Depeche Mode might be preaching to the choir a little bit too much. I appreciate the rehearsed welcome, though. Almost makes me feel valued as a return customer.

Can’t fault us for trying. So what can I do for ya, old timer?

A pack of blue Keychains.

Coming right up.

How’s business been doing?

Been a good day for democracy. About twenty people through the door – ten bucks on average.

Almost doing as good as I was in the big city.

Well, it helps that all I peddle is essential, consumable, and-- What did you call it? Perishable! Though, getting a delivery in this weather might as well mean getting it by the time it’s summer.

At least you don’t have to worry about refrigeration.

Yeah, and they slide it all in on a big ice cube through my front door. Phhh~hhh~

So is that why my smokes are always slightly damp?

That’ll be seven bucks. . . for one pack of freshly thawed cigarettes.

With the clunk of the register drawer, Eyes shoved the cigarettes in his coat pocket and loosened up a little bit. He’d look at his other hand. His former last cigarette was just about at his fingers, but had just about one last drag left in it. Putting it to his lips, he inhaled, and let it linger for a moment; all the worry about its absence had now faded away in favour of pure indulgence.

Without his notice, an ash tray had slid across the counter, already populated with a butt or two of a much weaker brand of cigarette.

Now THAT is what I call service!

You’d be surprised what I can come up with in the spur of the moment.

Compliments to the management.

He’d lift his hat a little bit, with the same hand – a gesture which seemed to cause both of them to snicker at the thought of how archaic their behaviour had gotten.

You’re still all set for tonight at your place? Wife’s going to be late – some work thing or rather, but I’ll bring some food along.

Sounds good, bring the whole family. I ain’t got much space, but it’ll do for music and good conversation at the least.

That’s all we can really handle with the missus anyway.

See you tonight then.

Eyes would put out the butt in the provided ashtray and turn around to leave. He’d square up a little before opening the door to the outside.

Take care not to slip out there, ol’ timer. Hip replacements are getting expensive nowadays.

I think I’ll just leave this door open, just so you can hear me screaming and come to my rescue when it happens.

Oh, you fucking devil. . .

The owner would watch him leave, and to his chagrin, perform the same little hat-raising gesture, without even turning to face him, as the door blew open against its hinges.

…

Part of him knew he was asking for it, when he said it, but he couldn’t help cracking wise. Now, the minor inconvenience of having to walk around the counter was his little tithe for trying to be pleasant and sociable. “Typical capitalites.”, he’d think to himself.

The owner would grumble to himself and drag his feet walking towards the coat rack. After all, it was all the way in the back of the shop, and by the time he’d get there and back again, he’d need a plough to dig his way to the entrance with all the snow that was blowing in. Real rotten stuff.

As he’d put the thick, woollen-lined, imitation sheepskin coat around his arms and onto his back, he’d hear the rare sound of a car engine echo through the spacious storehouse at the back of the shop. No one ever really went down these roads anymore, and usually if there was someone, there’d be trouble. He’d hear the breaks creak, and the wheels come to a stop somewhere outside.

Hurriedly, he’d scuffle to the front. His mind would run through every possible bad encounter he’d had in the ten or so years he had run the establishment. There was a gun somewhere in the back too, but he’d forgotten where he put it. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that tonight.

As he walked through the string curtain, separating the storage from the shop, to his surprise, instead of a thief, vandal, or murderer, stood a lone woman in a long black trench coat.

Perhaps it was the chauvinism in him, but he felt slightly at ease that it was a woman. Though, something about her didn’t give him leave to relax completely. The only way he could describe it was, that looking at her was like looking at a cat with its back arched, and its hairs on end. The kind of woman that looked innocent and gentle, but had a lot of danger behind those eyes of hers.

She’d close the front door behind her. The car’s engine was still running, and the headlights were beaming, leaving light-shafts across the air, through which the snowflakes would glint as they tumbled towards the ground. The snow that had made its way onto the tiled flooring of the shop would crunch underneath her boots, as she walked around a looked through the shelves.

Somehow, he couldn’t help being unnerved. It was as if, on top of playing an innocent prank on him, Eyes had somehow invited the devil through his threshold to seal the deal. What a practical joke.

All he really needed to do was strike up pleasant conversation. Put all that rehearsal into practice:

Hey there, little lady. What can I do for ya?

I’m just a little tired. You got any coffee back there?

Oh, thank god! It was all in his head. She’d just had a long day. He could relate to that, at least. This blizzard was kicking everyone’s ass. Days felt like the lasted forever, and you couldn’t really go anywhere. At least now he could breathe as sigh of relief that she wasn’t some psycho.

You’re a city girl, aren’t ya? I can tell by your accent. That and that hunk of junk you rode in on. What’s that. . . a 1990 Honda Prelude Si?

I wouldn’t know, stole that thing a long while ago.

Fuck. That’s a joke, right?

Heh. Seems like our corner of the woods is becoming quite popular with you capitalites.

Is that so?

Yeah, me and the missus are going over for dinner at an older feller’s place tonight. Guy moved in a couple of years ago, so that makes two of ya in recent times.

…

I really like your shop. Good music, clean-- prices are alright.

You listen to this kinda stuff?

Yeah. Last place I worked at had a big collection of records. Used to listen to this track—Save a Prayer—on repeat. Drove my boss insane after a while.

Let me see if I have it downloaded on the ol’ confuser.

Oh, you don’t have to do that.

No worries. Let an old man indulge a pretty young lady for once. We don’t get a lot of those coming through. That and don’t tell my wife I said that. One hot coffee coming right up.

He’d turn his back and start pulling levers, operating some morbidly complex coffee machine, as Ivy walked around through the isles. After a while, when she was outside of his direct eyeline, she’d stop and close her eyes for a moment. She’d stand there in between the frozen foods and the canned tuna, swaying from side to side, mouthing a lyric or two.

It had been such a long time.

So much had changed in the past decade, she thought. This song used to mean something completely different to her. She used to listen to it to get away – now, she listened to it to go back. She would try to imagine how that sweet, gentle girl would look on her life, knowing what was to come.

One thing Ivy had learned over the last ten years was to let go of regret.

Was she something she always wished she would be?

No.

Was she better?

Arguably. She had done something to change the world around her. That’s more than most would ever do.

She come out the other side a much darker, cynical person, than she’d ever imagine herself becoming. Though, she’d say that that was inevitable anyway. The person she was was just a stepping stone to the person she is now. There was no point in holding on to that. The sentimentality of it all made her feel soft and pathetic.

The path she went down had left her broken, aching, fatigued. Her mind would slip in and out of the sensible at a moment’s notice. A banshee, through and through, kept under flimsy lock and key. Too many wounds to heal at once. She had loved, she had lost. Everything had had a cost.

She’d think about Birdie. She’d think about Kie. She’d think about Silver.

She’d think about Eyes.

No more tears to shed.

She’d walk up to the register with her hands full of cheap food that she knew wouldn’t do her any good in the long run. A treat, in a series of days upon days of treats. The bare minimum to keep going and still feel good enough.

Hey, I-uh don’t mean to pry, but I saw you zoning out on the CCTV cameras. Are you doing alright?

Just hungry. How much do I owe you?

That’ll be 4.30.

As she put down the coins, she’d notice the ashtray out on the counter, with three butts sticking out of it, the thick smell of Blue Keychains filling her nostrils.

You ok?

Sorry, just thought of something. You’re giving me twenty cents off?

You keep count, huh. I imagine you’ll be wanting a receipt too.

Nah, I just found it weird you’d do that for someone who’s never been through the door.

Let’s just say that the relevant institutions find it a little bit too bothersome to come over and check if everything in the books adds up.

Well, thanks, I guess.

I don’t mean to be rude, little lady, but you look like you’ve had better days. Now, I don’t mean to impose on you, but that stuff ain’t going to last you for long. Why don’t you come over for our little dinner party. Can’t promise more than a hot meal and some conversation, but maybe the wife can lend you a more sympathetic ear than I have, if it’s. . . girl stuff.

Ivy didn’t really know how to process that question. Part of her was on edge thinking someone’s trying to get a new “little lady” chained up to the basement wall. The other part of her was simply too used to the idea that that kind of communality and kindness was bred out of people after thirty years of living in the Capital. The third was trying to come to terms with whatever he meant by “girl stuff”.

She agreed. He was dead, if he tried anything anyway.

You smoke Keychains?

No, I prefer the lighter stuff. I mostly bum a fag off my wife, every once in a while. Guy with the Keychains left a little while back. Same person we’re having dinner over at.

Small world.

Yeah. . . Come to think of it, all of youse seem alike. All you ever seem to talk about is cigarettes and music no one likes to listen to anymore. I think if you and the old guy’d get along, then maybe I won’t have to take the brunt of it for one night.

…

Hey, mister. . . Thanks.

Call me Big T.

T? That short for anything?

Trevor. But everyone calls me T.

Alright, T. Thanks for playing me that song. See you around.

See ya around, little lady.

Like blood in the water, the thought would drive her insane – more so, anyway. She’d rush outside and get into the car, as fast as she could. Was this really how it happens? Pure chance?

There was no way. He had to have seen it coming.

Thirteen years, she had thought about this. What she’d say, what she’d do. One crystal clear, perfect, little image.

She wondered if she was capable of forgiveness. Had age and time dulled the anger of her youth enough, to where she could let it all be behind her? Could she let the ghosts that ravaged her mind come to rest, knowing that all was in vain and a resolution would never come? Was it a sunk cost fallacy if it had to do with people’s lives? She knew she could just drive away, let bygones be bygones, and try to settle for what passes as a normal life somewhere out there.

The idea of her life ending not with a bang, but a whimper – she found it sickening. Even if they stopped looking for Eyes, she’d still be on the hook. She’d have to live out the rest of her days looking over her shoulder, hiding in plain sight. They didn’t even need a justification for it, they could just make it up. Who’s to say they already hadn’t. Isn’t that funny? Even with him dead, nothing would change.

His reasons didn’t matter anymore. Trying to find any causality for his actions only ended in bitter disappointment. She knew in her heart that she bore just about as much responsibility for it all as he did. She could have just died in that antiques store, like she was supposed to. She could have done it at any point, but she didn’t. Ivy knew she was slave to her baser instincts – her fight or flight. Clinging to life, at any cost, like some pathetic animal.

She’d run her fingers over the scabs on her knuckles, now healed over from nearly a year of disuse. The sensation of the concrete floor of her cell, permanently tattooed onto her body. She’d laugh, knowing why she did it to herself – some fucking movie. What else are you gonna do? Sit there and contemplate?

Forgive, but not forget – she’d think to herself.

The days were short in the thick of winter. It didn’t take much driving around to kill enough time before dinner. Sometimes she’d get out of the car and just walk off from the side of the road. It never lasted too long before she’d get annoyed with herself and get back in. Felt like going stir-crazy all over again, but this time there was nowhere else to go.

She’d park in front of the address T. had given her, pulling the handbrake, and shoving a nearby rock underneath her rear tyre. She hesitated whether or not to open the boot. There was nothing good in there. Poison was hiding away in a cheap canvas folding chair bag, which she had ordered online, after realising how impractical it was to lug her around. Though, she thought that if this was the time and a place for her to come out, at least the time wasn’t correct. The car would creak as it cooled down, a tinny metallic plink reminding her of every passing second. The small red light on the dashboard blinked in sync, illuminating her face and fingertips in a not entirely unfamiliar colour.

A knock on the window snapped her out of it. The red nose of the shopkeeper being just about the only defining feature that stuck out through the foggy glass. She’d roll down the window. He’d clearly made an effort to go outside and check on her.

Hey there, little lady. Glad ya could make it.

Yeah, me too.

We’re inside, if ya don’t wanna stay out here the whole evening.

Yeah, I just wasn’t sure if this was the place.

Well, it is. Invite said to bring the whole family, so ya could be my niece for an evening, if it’d make ya feel more comfortable.

No, that’s alright.

Well, come on in. I’ll introduce ya to the ol’ coot.

She’d step out of the car, leaving pretty much everything unlocked. The first step onto the snow felt like it would break her leg. Each footstep was laboured by an anticipation and anxiety, which she couldn’t really place. The hundred or so metres to the front door felt like they took an eternity. The whole time, she couldn’t help but notice something was bothering him, and he was wondering how to stop and ask.

Come to think of it, if I’m going to be introducing ya, I never did catch yer name.

It’s Ivy.

Ivy, huh? That short for something too?

Ivette, but no one—except my parents—ever called me that.

That’s a shame. Where are yer folks at now?

They’re long gone. Didn’t get to see much of them either.

Aw. Sorry for bringing it up.

No worries. There’s no way you could’ve known.

What she didn’t realise was that they were already moving again. He’d made her think about something else, so he could get her to the door. No one does that. The facade of being “just a shopkeeper” was slowly becoming less and less convincing. Eyes probably knew it too.

T would open the door to the cabin with a careless thud, immediately heading for where he’d sat minutes before. She’d sit on the threshold, scanning the interior, like a vampire that was yet to be invited in. To her shock, all that was inside that cabin was mostly squalor, and an a dishevelled-looking old man. He looked pathetic. Tens of kilograms lighter, and sporting a thick, bushy, grey beard, which covered most of his face. Despite it all, one thing remained unmistakable – see if you can figure out what.

Well, ol’ timer, here’s the lady of the hour. Ivy – Eyes. Eyes – Ivy.

Hey.

Hey.

It’s somewhat hard to get the point across, but getting those three letters out, sounded like they were coming out of a man that had just swallowed a handful of broken glass.

Come on in and shut the door, yer letting all the heat out.

Plates are over there.

She’d close the flimsy door behind her, and brush past his shoulder to go fill up a plate with all the potato salad and all the meatballs she could carry. When she’d finally sit down, she’d sit across from him, looking dead at him for minutes at a time, knowing she’d never get to thank T’s wife personally.

So what was that movie you were talking to me about, Mr. E?

Which one?

The one about the father and the son. Postmen – Chinese or something.

Oh, Postmen in the Mountains?

Yeah, that one.

Well, the most descriptive I could be about it, is that it’s filmed in the same way Tarkovsky filmed the Zone in Stalker – some faraway, out-of-time place, which feels completely alien, yet somehow familiar.

I’ve seen that one too.

Postmen or Stalker?

Both.

Well, if the little missus isn’t into movies too, huh.

I’ve seen a couple – my old boss would put me through the ringer with the movie trivia, so I kinda had to pick some things up, like it or not.

Sounds like an asshole.

The worst.

Anyway, the father has to retire due to knee problems, but he convinces his higher ups to turn the route over to his son. Things don’t end up exactly like he thinks though, since the son doesn’t really want to walk in his father’s footsteps, even though it’s a high-paying government job.

That’s just kind of a plot synopsis. “The father is estranged from his family, because he spends all his time carrying other people’s mail.” In reality it’s about the old ways coming to clash with the new, as well as having to give up on something that defined your life up until that point.

That’s how pretentious people talk about movies. Maybe in academia they’d like to hear your deeply analytical essay on the themes and metaphors, but for mister T over there, he ain’t retaining shit.

You two know each other, or somethin’?

No.

No.

And you know what, his son eventually comes to understand that his father has had an impact on all the villagers he delivers to, even if it means that some of them know him better than he does. He comes to appreciate that over what his father’s actual job and sense of duty are.

Yeah, but the real beauty was in them bonding through simple conversations, hiking through one of the most rural mountain routes, surrounded by all these seemingly benign, ordinary lives.

Did you like it?

Yes.

Good.

I need a fucking smoke.

She’d get up and leave through the front door just about as quickly as she came in. T jumped in his seat a little bit, when she slammed the door. She’d almost take the damn thing off its hinges.

Well, that’s one way to quickly ruin the mood, ol’ timer. What was all that about?

I should go and apologize.

You? Apologize?

I need a smoke too.

It’d take him a second to get up, which made him feel like the pathetic old man she’d thought he was. Especially, considering that that second didn’t used to be there.

Much like earlier in the day, he’d crack open the door she’d hastily slam shut moments earlier, already mulling over the words he was going to say to try and make a decade of obvious hardships go away like it was nothing.

Same deal as before, he’d walk outside to a blinding white field of goddamn snow in every direction. He’d see her out there, blurred by the thick snow storm. Sustained winds would reduce visibility to only a couple of metres, but even then, she’d stick out like a sore thumb.

She’d be standing there, out in the open field, waiting. The full moon lighting her back and the tops of the far-away trees. A loose canvas bag hanging off of her shoulder. Puffs of warm air leaving her nose. Impatient for him to walk all the way over. Her mouth, already in the middle of speaking her mind.

On your knees!

Ivy. . . I--

Shut the fuck up, Eyes!

The cadence with which she said it made him effectively mute. She had said it with her teeth out. Little bits of spittle flying out, like from the mouth of a rabid dog. He could see that glint in her eye – an eye which he did not recognize. Perhaps all that needed to be said was indeed already said, whether he liked it or not. It made it much easier to accept his position, in a way. He’d light a cigarette for himself and labouredly drop onto his knees. Looking up to her now towering stature, he’d put it to his mouth and take one good long drag.

Even before she could put it into words, he’d turn to his side, and lower his head. He had already seen this play out a dozen times, and this was his favourite scene. If they were watching, he might as well put on a good show.

The thought made her smirk. Ivy drew Poison out of her sheath in one big arc. The scabbard and the canvas bag would fall to the ground, making a splash of snow puff up into the air.

Eyes would recognize the blade almost immediately. After all he’d been through, it was almost insulting to be killed by his own merchandise. Some cheap replica of the real thing, too.

In one graceful motion, she’d lift those one-hundred and sixty centimetres of cold hard steel above and behind her head. Her left hand sliding down the handle down to the pommel.

Though, they weren’t alone. Somewhere off in the distance, all doe-eyed, sat the familiar silhouette of a pitch-black deer. Stupid little fucker was chewing on some grass. With every bow of the head, its horns would pick up just a little bit of snow. If it didn’t move, you would think it was totally lifeless. Despite that, it never took its eyes off of them – not even for a second. Always seemed to know when shit was just about to happen.

They’d stand there for a minute, in complete silence. The trail of smoke, coming from Eyes’ cigarette would travel up and disappear into the sky, and the moon would reflect off and glint on the blade’s surface.

Ivy had spent most of her adult life thinking about this moment. Now that it was here, all she had to do is have the resolve to follow through. Though, originally formed as one singular, complete image, now she could read a different meaning into it. A new idea had entered her perfect little world.

Maybe they’ll forgive me one day. . . But I’ll make it sure as fuck they won’t forget me any time soon.

With that, she’d swing down the blade, cleaving the deer’s head off in one stroke. It would continue to stare, unblinking, into the distance – the light in its eyes slowly beginning to fade. Its body would collapse, and blood would start gushing from the gaping wound, soaking the snow beneath it.

It would squirm and whimper, choking, shaking involuntarily, clinging onto whatever nervous impulses it had still stored in the fibres of it muscles. Its limbs would go numb – death would be instant. The grudge might have been over, but this was only an omen of what was to come.

Next chapter: Tentatively, late January 2025.

[expression-of-doubt]

old-reds.html

The following is an excerpt from the official website for the Neutral Capital Coalition (or NCC) – a political coalition, formed out of four parties: The Capital Communist Party, The Communist Party of The Capital, Party of Capital Communists, and Russophiles for the Rebirth of the Fatherland.

As you click around, you are presented the political doctrine of, what is advertised as, an ideologically neutral, nationalist party, somewhere in the political centre of The Capital. Most of the text on screen is, by default, scaled to the largest font size available, as if to compensate for their average reader's diminishing eyesight. All of the buttons are large, and noticeably red.

The page also appears to have been mangled, as most of the assets on screen seem to be misaligned and mistranslated. Whether or not this is a freak web-scraping accident, or the original design is impossible to tell.

Welcome to the Neutral Capital Coalition’s official website. Click here to view the list of candidates for the production of the representatives from the coalition for the October election season. “Climble the snark and ER!”

“Russia is not our enemy” – it says on the bulletin.

“The Capital Socialist Party – a bourgeois party!” - it says on the news ticker.

The political scene in The Capital is a difficult one to translate to people who haven’t lived there in the last thirty years or so. Regardless, the post-Cold-War political climate is not too different from other Eastern European countries at the time. After the fall of the Soviet Union, most of the former Soviet republics are thrust into political turmoil, as the power vacuum allows for new faces to come into the limelight, new political political figures to head the nation through the tumultuous process of democratisation.

However, not everyone was so eager. “The Old Guard”, as they would come to be know, were all those people – now aged 70 and over – who felt that this was the worst thing that could happen to their homeland. Usually, individuals in high-standing positions within the country’s administration, and/or people whose sense of identity was too intertwined with the Soviet ideal, to give up so easily.

Those people were forced into a kind of hiding in plain sight – their former party allegiance kept under wraps, until the country could be once again reunited with the Motherland. The rewards for their patience were to be tenfold, as Putin himself would shake their hand and thank them for their devotion to the greater cause.

Such a thing would, sadly, not happen in their lifetimes. Distraught, they would make a five-year plan to ensure that such a future is secured, even if they couldn’t see it for themselves. With their millions in accumulated net-worth, they would do the next best thing – they would have children.

Now aged in their mid-forties or early fifties, these are the children that saw the tail-end of the old socialist regime, and would be tasked with rebuilding the nation in the new westernised era. Children that have been taught from an early age, that there is a great nation out there in the north – a brother nation, which cares so deeply about them, and would do anything to be together with them again. One that would save them from the West.

No one asked the people whether or not they want to join the EU, nor did they ask their opinion on whether that is a poll that should be held! It is our position that it is better for our nation to not participate in the EU. We definitively have no place in NATO, and it is yet another lie that NATO is a defence alliance that will come to our aid!

It is an aggressive and terrorist organisation, set to impose US world domination, as Eisenhower himself said when he created NATO!

Many of the workers, who have been brainwashed by the bourgeois propaganda for 30 years now, have no class consciousness, and every person who is on a salary is part of the working class! The majority of people still remember who really cares for us, who we must reunite with, if we are to survive as a people. We must return to our brothers-in-arms, and be whole once again! – the page reads.

And so the country exists as a relic - a perpetual proxy war, which is begging to return to the “good ol’ days”. Being on either side of the political spectrum labels you as either an old, detached, Russian pawn, or a new, money-grubbing, US puppet. No one is playing for the home team.

Under these conditions, there could be no moving forward from the Cold War. The country would be stuck in a perpetual transition from one regime to the next – one step forward, one step back. There could be no such thing as nationalism, since whatever form that word would appear in, on the political stage, would soon come to be clarified by whom it was paid for – the US or Russia. On its own, it is a nation that bares no remark – a country with no identity of its own; much like a D-list actor, working as an extra, in a large Hollywood blockbuster production.

On the receiving end of all this, would be the Old Guard’s grandchildren – now aged somewhere in their twenties. Children that have never seen the old regime, nor will they get to see the new one. A lost generation, not because of war, death, and bloodshed, but lost because it would only ever exist in transition. A generation of unfulfilled youth, who would only ever hear of greater times from the past, or even greater times to be had in the years to come. Their present would be put on hold for the sake of someone else’s idea for the future.

Now think what kind of life a person, born into that generation would have. What decision would they make, when they walk up to vote for the future of their country, and on that list is some coalition, vying for neutrality – a coalition composed entirely out of former members of the Old Guard. Is it some practical joke? What could the “Neutral” in their name stand for? It isn’t neutral, because it is a compromise between the political ambitions of both sides. It isn’t neutral because it wants to put the country first, and foreign diplomacy second. It’s neutral, because they believe that they’ve already won.

US-financed neo-Nazi leader detained by our glorious militia! Another victory against fascism in Europe! The Neutral Capital Coalition expresses its gratitude to The Capital municipality, the mayor, the Supreme Administrative Prosecutor’s Office, the Ministry of Interior, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs. The state has once again shown I pursues a consistent and categorical policy against the western fascism, perpetuated by the US in our country. – an article on the page reads.

What can a member of that lost generation do? Wait for every single insignificant old fart in the Old Guard to keel over and die? Gladly. . . but unfortunately unlikely. The thing about those parasites is that when they multiply, their children aren’t that much better off. They keep spreading the brotherly love, and wear their red little pins, while they go to their rallies. The unfortunate truth of the matter, is that in order to have the memory of the good ol’ times to fade away, the neue Lost Generation won't only have to wait for the Old Guard to die, but have their own parents die as well; have themselves die; and in all likelihood, have their children die of old age, for good measure.

That is—obviously—a morbid and slow process. Too slow. So what is the next best thing? Well. . . being the most technologically savvy generation, nurtured on the internet, as so called “digital natives”, might end up having its boons. Here and there, their grandparent might have the idea to meet with like-minded people, reminisce about the good ol’ times, and discuss some political views. However, walking is getting a little bit harder as time goes on, and those legs don’t carry you as far as they used to. Maybe the kid can set you up on the computer, so you can do that over the internet instead. Maybe you have the kid make your political party’s website, since he seems to be good with that whole programming thing. Maybe the kid starts phishing for some credentials, distributing some malware, running some ransomware, mining cryptocurrencies, and generally opening a couple of extra bank accounts for every visitor on that site.

Slowly, but surely, every member of the Old Guard slowly starts having more and more issues with the computer. Every click slowing their machine down more and more. A CPU failure here, identity theft there; an issue with their health insurance here, a completely drained pension there.

Eventually, it all adds up, and all they have left to do is lay down, penniless, unable to move, disconnected from the world – all alone. Nothing but their ideals to keep them company. A new age with a digital footprint large enough to stomp out the good ol' times from collective memory. Surely, your brothers and sisters out north will rush will save you now.

Anton “The Shiv” Popov is to be sent into one of the new mixed-gender prisons, which were recently established due to the overwhelming levels of success in detaining the large spike in crime seen around The Capital in recent years. The NCC sees this as an incredible victory for the equality of the sexes and the rule of law in our great nation!

-----------------------------------------------------------------

> danvan7712 says: You will all see many more of these cases. Per day. With subordinate prosecutors, the Ministry of the Interior, the government, mayors, you are all really in the jungle! The strong and brutal will survive, while Europe isolates you more and more like a panopticon of horrors or a mafia museum!

> Ressurectionist says: Literarily, this is an incredibly bad article.

> T26gram says: RE: danvan7712 – you fucking idiot, shove your head up your asshole

> puck_futin says: The comment was deleted by moderators because it contained advertising messages or spam.

> comanvergil says: When we were civilized, the European barbarians first killed their brother to take his witch and become tribal leaders!

[expression-of-doubt]

oddities.mp4

She stood there, the pitter-patter of the rain beating against the ugly, purple nylon of her umbrella; paramedics, journalists and disinterested cops circling all around her, arranging the scene to be picture-perfect for this afternoon’s and ostensibly the whole month’s worth of breaking news reports.

After all, what could be more compelling to a general audience than a disfigured corpse, of what was presumably a man, with his skull so caved in, it had painted a spiked halo of dark red blood where there once used to be a head and a face. If only he could have died whilst holding up a “V for victory”, so that the iconography of it would single-handedly provoke a stencilled mural be drawn in its place in two week’s time. The words “gruesome scene” basically wrote themselves on the collective phone screen of every journalist from the seventeen rival TV stations present on the scene, all trying to spin some different angle for what was just simple, cold, bloody murder.

No one really wanted to be there, mostly because it was tough work in even rougher conditions, or maybe because it was just work. Terrible weather, and the only coffee nearby came out of an ancient vending machine, which was barely pretending to hold off on the sugar, when you’d press the button for none. It was enough of a mess that it would handily occupy them for the rest of the day, which most seemed to take in stride, as well as anyone could a free paycheque, anyway. No moving parts or reasonable doubt to be had either – just “We’re currently investigating.” and “You’ll be the first to know, when we know.” License to make shit up, and hope that further developments would end up proving you right, and the guys over at CTV wrong. It was the kind of gamble, where no one would end up being the loser, since most stations would end up reposting each other’s work by the end of the first week, with their readers and viewers becoming about as half as interested by week two. Though, most of these young urban professionals were morbidly hoping that there’d be some other gruesome scene to write about by that point.

Everyone would race to be the first to publish, but in this day and age it wouldn’t amount to nothing more than forcing your colleagues into the choke-hold of having to cite you as the guys that pressed “Publish” seventeen milliseconds earlier, because the intern had a momentary tremor. The average consumer of said news couldn’t give any less of a shit who broke it first, since those articles would be sandwiched in between a photo of a scantly clad girl, advertising her private page, and this week’s hottest meme of a chipmunk struggling to swallow an overly large nut.

Ivy wasn’t really in the head-space to have much of a reaction to anything, since anyone who’d spend any time living in The Capital would know this is just about par for the course in this town. All she could think about is how the rain would scare off all the clientele, and there’d be nothing to do but shuffle boxes from lower to higher shelves all day. No reason to take the headphones in her ears out either. Another day wasted before it had even started.

She’d stand there, eavesdropping on the conversations the people unrolling police tape would bark at each other for several minutes at a time before looking back down at her feet and thinking to herself when someone would notice the tooth sitting on the ground right in front of her – some kind of molar. A dentist would probably know, she’d think to herself, as if affirming to anyone listening in on her thoughts, that she didn’t really need to know. Several police officers would almost step on it, which would surely reveal its existence or instantly destroy it, but no such luck. She’d smirk to herself one last time, before stepping away from it and through the door behind her, into a store-front labelled “Oddities” – her place of work.

…

There are only two things really worth mentioning about that place:

One was immediately apparent – it sold antiques. Old, musty, and as far as anyone could tell without going in – probably expensive. While partially true, the real nature of it was something closer to a boutique, which had at some point over the years failed, and then forcibly diversified in various—if not too many—directions, in a desperate attempt to keep the lights on.

The second was its proprietor – a man, known to his acquaintances, and unknown to just about everyone else. A rather unpleasant to be around—by anyone’s guess—sixty-something year old man, who had, so far, blissfully coasted through life, in a state of perpetual melancholia. It was the kind of thing you’d immediately sense radiating off of him, if you ever got to meet him in-person. It’s what ultimately must have earned him the nickname “Eyes”. The only thing that really betrayed that caricature was the way he’d loom over people in stature, broad shoulders and all. That and you couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite it all, he was never really unhappy. There’d be this air of dignity about him, which no one ever seemed to really question or deny about him. Maybe it was the way he’d handle himself, or maybe it was just his age, finally growing to suit him. At least, that’s what Ivy would say, whenever someone asked.

Gonna be another slow day, huh Ivy? How was your date?

The asshole never showed up. Stood me up like some dumb bitch, that doesn’t know better.

That’s a shame. . . I’m guessing you have him an earful?

He’s been ghosting me ever since. He should probably keep at it, if he knows what’s good for him!

‘Attagirl. You deserve better. You just let me know if you need anything, alright?

He’d run Oddities with an iron fist – a fact that would become apparent the second any unseasoned clientele managed to somehow find his shop, and naively think to enter it without proper defensive countermeasures.

The ideal customer was one who would enter, give a polite, yet short greeting, and would then proceed to browse through the shelves and the displays in complete and utter, deeply contemplative silence, for at least ten to fifteen minutes. Only after, would they be capable of asking, or be offered, any help. This “help” would usually consist of a couple of leading questions, with which he would internally gauge the client’s level of familiarity. If the client “had a pulse”, as he liked to put it, the conversation would be brief, and it would result in a guaranteed purchase within the next minute. If no such vital signs were found, and he was able to diagnose the cause of brain death sufficiently quickly, there was about a fifty-fifty chance they’d walk away with something, which he’d deem sufficiently expensive and profitable enough to justify having gotten up from his chair. Whether or not they had come in with the intention of leaving with said thing was seen as irrelevant, and/or their mistake.

Anyone that acted outside of the “mandatory browsing period”, was booted out kicking and screaming.

As you might imagine, this didn’t really fall under what some would consider conventional business savvy, but to him that never was the point to begin with. To him, this mercantile venture was an exercise in providing a service to the public. A service that no one was explicitly begging for, but was provided nonetheless.

I’ll be alright. I just don’t know why you even bothered opening up today. They’re not going to be done with that mess outside anytime soon.

Who knows, one of those journos might make a mistake and take a picture of the wrong wall. Have to look our best.

The one without the corpse with the blown off head?

They don’t know that. Their bosses probably just told them to go to this address and take pictures. I don’t think most of them can even perceive the corpse as something out of the ordinary. Besides, there’s a tooth rolling around out there they still haven’t noticed.

Oddities was Eyes’ personal crusade against the tides of mindless consumerism, brought on by nearly thirty years of attempts to establish a democracy, modelled after other capitalist countries. This was only his excuse to try and shape the unwilling masses; to turn them from a horde of grossly disinterested individuals, preoccupied with the turmoil of daily and/or biological life, to more full-bodied and well-rounded people, with at least one niche interest. It wasn’t so much an antiques shop, as it was a re-education centre. Ivy also liked to add that it was a place that forced upon people an intense kind of concentration, to make a really blunt kind of point.

She had worked there ever since she was almost done with high-school. The pay couldn’t have been particularly good, but as the sole employee of the establishment, she had a certain kind of irreplaceable autonomy. Though, everything seemed to indicate that she’d still stick around, even if that wasn’t the case. Something about all those carefree workdays, where there wouldn’t be a single person setting foot through those doors. She didn’t really see it as a job, as much as it was a place to hang out for a couple of hours and still earn a paycheque at the end of the month. Enough to cover a small one-room apartment, food, decent internet, and her tuition, anyway.

Though, the idea of giving money to that front of an institution they’d call a university seemed to irk her a bit. She had gotten roped into doing it, after her relatives had twisted her arm into getting a higher education. For her future, they’d say. Obviously they meant something like pursuing law, medicine, or architecture, but she thought the humanities would have to suffice. She’d never really talk about it, but made sure anyone concerned about the topic could rest assure, that whatever she’d come out the other end with would result in no prospects whatsoever.

Saw that too, eh? That’s next week’s shocking revelation, I bet. Also what… are you telling me none of those piggies wanna come in and look for some new curtains? No questions?

Yeah pretty much every single one of them came in, asking the same questions – efficient communication, they call it. I’m pretty sure half of them went out with the conclusion that I was the one who did it.

Well. . . you might’ve. There’s enough antique weapons in this building to arm a small army. Who’s to say you haven’t grown restless at your age and started lashing out?

Most days, she’d lounge around the shop on one of the many beaten-up sofas, which to her seemed to have been on display and available for purchase for at least the last thirty years. Clearly no takers.

Every once in a while, she’d get up and turn on one of several import high-end Hi-fi systems, on which she would play one of the many records Eyes had stashed away for discerning clientele.

Eyes would be over in the corner by the entrance, where he had set up his workbench all those aeons ago, when Oddities first opened. He’d say it was the best lit part of the shop, which would highlight the fact that he is, in fact, the most important article enclosed in these here four walls. He’d usually smirk to himself while saying that. In reality, his eyesight was getting worse, and the corner window gave him just enough light to not have to turn on a desk lamp all the time. He’d usually spend his days digging around the guts of some old, broken radio. Never seemed to know how to get it to work, though.

You’d feel very lucky then, wouldn’t ya? The beheading – sure; but that’s a high velocity impact splatter repainting that wall. Curious thing is, that there’s not even a single sign of gunfire anywhere around that body. Whoever hit that guy turned him into mist, and didn’t even use a gun. It’s sure to stump forensics for a while, if it ever reaches them, that is.

Definitely not going to burn this week’s guess on you being a gardener. I dunno. It just looks like some dead rich kid to me. Mummy and daddy’s silver spoon couldn’t bail him out of this mess, I guess.

Behind Eyes, would be a large modular bookshelf, which only housed books in the compartments that were physically out of his reach. Over the years, he had replaced anything within arms length for some kind of junk, he found essential to the upkeep of the shop – wire strippers, 12 gauge wire, planks of wood, cast iron pans, scrap electronics, technical manuals, coffee cups, depleted uranium rods – you name it. This was a man, who self-admittedly refused to understand the concepts of organisation and cleanliness, as he thrived in “the kind of chaos only he could make”. This was also part of the philosophy, which resulted in the glorified intimidation tactic that was hanging a quick-release sixteenth-century executioner’s sword off of chains from the ceiling, right above where he’d be sitting all day. Essential, he’d call it.

Ivy simply didn’t believe that it would have much of an effect on anyone, especially if someone were to be so inclined as to break in and try to steal, what was, to her, an assortment of mostly dust and worthless junk, no one saw value in, anyway.

What added to the intimidation factor were the dried flecks of blood, which covered part of the lower edge. The usual story would bluntly imply they were from the last client who misbehaved, or maybe the last intruder who thought they were going to get out alive, but Ivy knew that there was an equally funny story of someone getting up too quick from their desk one too many times.

Regardless, Eyes was unshakable in his convictions, and it seemed to fit in with his rather morbid sense of humour.

Who knows! That kid is going to end up having one hell of a swan song.

What do you mean?

Well… someone already took the money out of his pocket, so he’s at least gonna buy someone a good evening out. Suit is going to get ripped off him, cleaned up, and appear in someone’s wedding photo two weeks from now. Probably lived somewhere too, which means that there’s a free condo to crash in. . . at least until rent is due. And whatever ID he might have had on him is now someone’s blank slate to get out of this shithole, carte blanche. At the end of the day, this guy has done more for the citizens of this town than most. What’s left of him was committed to the city, regardless if he ever was.

You been thinking that one up the whole day, haven’t you? That’s a real fucked up way of looking at it, Eyes.

Ivy would grimace at the thought, but she knew that it probably wasn’t too far off from the truth. All it took was one look out through the window. The tooth – still just laying there on the wet concrete. Another footstep passing by it for yet another near miss.

Whatever he was running away from just caught up to him. Probably never even noticed. He got what was coming to him.

Eyes would look up from his little project and give the scene outside another once-over.

Everyone does. . . eventually.

The rain would patter against the glass, slightly eroding away the old, faded lettering on them. Another uneventful day in The Capital.

Next issue: October 23rd, 2024

[expression-of-doubt]

john-doe.html

Good morning, truthheads!

News flash: We just got a fresh batch of sweet details on the incidents taking place in The Capital. Never-before-seen stuff coming right up:

As far as our research on the young man goes, there are a lot of unknowns. Nothing really beyond purely biographical information, provided in the police report. Who knows if that isn’t just some made-up John Doe kind of conjecture as well. Our attempts to find any relatives or next of kin have exclusively resulted in dead ends, with our PIMS clearance being denied by almost every institution left in charge of clean-up after the incident.

What we can tell you, based of anecdotal information, is that he had recently moved to The Capital from one of the rural agricultural centres out east. This seems to coincide with the recent news of changes in policy, devaluing a lot of family-owned plots, which the agriculture sector was already seeing complications with keeping competitive, in light of the new “green” requirements. No doubt targeted by unfair competition and cheaper foreign imports, fruit and vegetable producers, and livestock breeders are incentivised to sign unfavourable contracts for land nationalisation, or risk losing hundreds per hectare while they push for fairer subsidies.

It remains unknown whether or not the young man was on the other side of such a deal and with whom. It is also currently unclear what the government plans to do with the newly acquired land. The current press release states that such matters will be “considered after a careful analysis of which ministry has done what”. Typical!

Our sources say he was seen arriving at the train yard a week prior to the incident, which would make it slightly before the public announcement of policy changes. There is speculation as to whether or not the young man was involved in organising the demonstrations and traffic obstruction that followed, with the protests demanding the resignation of the recently appointed minister.

In the ensuing days, the man was seen squatting in a makeshift village with the homeless population of The Capital down by the western parks. After masterfully haggling up the price on this information, the other residents described him as “not particularly talkative” and “seemingly lost in thought”. I wonder what he could have been thinking about so much.. hmm!? Though most seemed convinced that he was highly educated in some way – his alma mater, however, was apparently not discussed. Most of the stories seemed to overlap at the fact that he showed up, sat on a bench for a while, shared a meal, then went to sleep for the night.

The only reason why we even have tertiary biographical information on the guy is because he was flagged for shoplifting the literal day after. Apparently wasted no time getting acquainted with the lowlifes in town. Wonder where you could have met those!

He then goes off the radar for a week before his documents and personal belongings are found on an elderly homeless woman several hundred meters away from where that headless rich guy from last week’s article was found.

Here’s what the editorial team thinks on the matter:

This guy gets handed a rough deal by one of the institutions, and then has essentially no prospects, because parliament is making his life a living nightmare by nuking his business, importing foreign goods at a price and scale that is simply unachievable for the agricultural sector in this country – shitty soil and all. More requirements, more upfront costs, higher prices on goods. The guy is essentially forced out of business or is fired from a larger co-op to cut corners.

As time goes on, the guy is getting a little bit spiteful towards the big man in The Capital, and wants to show him a piece of his mind. He gets on the first train here and lo and behold, turns out he doesn’t know shit about life. Suddenly, he’s a guy, who spend his whole life digging up dirt with a shovel in a town that has more to do with science fiction than whatever reality he had in mind.

Seems like he was desperate too, seeing as he couldn’t find a place to crash for the night. Probably didn’t know anyone here either. His money should have been good around here, considering that he was probably on the other end of a land deal. Guess it mustn’t have been much – the greedy bastards. He then gets to know the lowlifes around town and starts using that fancy education of his to wow them all and get them to get all riled up enough to start protesting, even if they didn’t even plant a seed in their life. Liberals and influencers immediately jump on the band-wagon, because it’s hip to be green, and start spreading the word on social media, leading to last week’s demonstrations. Everyone starts pointing a finger at him, whenever the police start asking who’s responsible for the whole thing, and they flag him for something as innocuous as shoplifting, just so they have probable cause for something where they can detain him.

His new buddies then hide him somewhere in the basements where they grow and multiply, and then he walks out with a new set of documents and probably a makeover as well. Old lady finds his old ID it in a trash can and thinks she can make a buck out of it, if someone needs some inspiration for some other art project.

Who’s to say he isn’t responsible for the suit either! Might have been some minister’s son for all he cares! Real kind of eat the rich behaviour, if we’re being honest. Almost admirable, even.

That’s been all for this week, more truths inbound from The Capital’s favourite devil’s advocates coming your way very soon. Remember to love each other and stick it to the man on the daily!

[expression-of-doubt]

prologue.mp3

Man, you look like you’ve had a hell of a night. You get any sleep?

Kinda. I went down this rabbit hole at like three in the morning – bad idea. Anyway, I’m here now, so might as well get done with it.

You spent the whole night reading some dumb shit on the internet?

Nah, it was about this woman. Real mean kinda bitch. Had a pretty rough life… or something like that.

Man, you really need to get laid. Less reading about them and more talking to them, alright?

...

Why are you wincing at me, man? You know I’m looking out for you! Besides, what’s so special about your girlfriend? She got a number?

Yeah, if you like women with a body count.

Shit, what kinda whores you be reading about, man? You looking for a woman with experience? There’s plenty of fish in the sea for you to be fishing upstream.

No, I meant like an actual body count.

I always knew you was into crazy. Though now I’m starting to get interested. What this crazy bitch do? How much time she doing?

Never caught her, apparently. I haven’t really gotten to the end of it, but she was out for revenge on some old guy, who really messed with her head. Ended up doing some fucked up shit and killed a couple dozen people to get to the fucker and get him to look her in the eyes.

Sounds like just about any woman I know. If she’s such a big deal, then how come I’ve never heard of any of this on TV?

Website said it was in one of them eastern bloc countries. No info coming in or out, ya know? Tight ship. Press kept quiet about the whole thing just so that they could save face. Ended up brushing the whole thing under the rug.

Hold on, hold on… some true-crime-ass bitch shows up and starts murdering people left, right, and centre, and all they do over there is tough it out with their tail between their legs? What kind of stupid, made up, conspiracy theories are you reading, man? Eastern bloc, my ass… Those fuckers would fuck her up and not think twice about it.

If you won’t take it from me, here, see for yourself: https://www.thebackgroundworld.net/cases/poison-ivy.html

Nah, man. I ain’t about to be getting no malware from no cyber cult or whatever you’re into. She’s all yours! Sounds just like your type too – crazy and 100% fictional.

You’re the one that asked. Suit yourself.

Man, shut up and show me where you hid the stuff. You did do what I asked you to, right?

Yeah, they’re in the back of the car under the spare tyre. Here’s the keys. There’s also one in the glovebox in case some shit happens on the way there.

Alright! Now we’re talkin’!

This better not come back to bite me in the ass.

Man, when we flip this shit, you ain’t gotta worry about nothing no more. You can buy yourself a bunker somewhere out there in the Midwest and fuck around with your psychopathic commie girlfriend as much as you like. Meanwhile, I’ll be living large down south with supermodels and that top shelf kinda booze you can only order when you have a pool with name tiled on the bottom of it.

Just get out of here before I change my mind.

“Why yes Mr. Sumner, would you like more champagne? Certainly, Mr. Sumner, I’ll go fetch it now!” Phahahaha!

That car better come back in once piece when you get back – it was my dad’s. It’s a lease.

You worry too much, man. I’mma head out. Beat the traffic. Better take a good look at me while you can, cuz next time you see me, I’ll be looking like a million bucks!

Yeah, I bet.

...

He just left. Headed north – north-west. We got all of that on tape, right?

You bet. We’re waiting for him a couple of miles down. Good work.