Tag: dystopia

Codebreakers

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Deep under a secret military base, there’s a room.
In the room, 100 clones of the world’s greatest codebreaker work day and night.
We feed signals into their headphones and laptops, and they work furiously on their decoding machines.
Chewing up top secret military communications is their specialty. There hasn’t been a code invented that can get by them.
We can’t let them out, but we can bring them games and puzzles.
We used to show them movies, but someone decided to show them David Lynch and Terry Gilliam films.
Had to grow a new batch of clones after that.

They should do something

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The bumpersticker on the first SUV said “DRILL BABY DRILL.”
The other SUV had dozens of stickers representing environmental groups which disagreed with that sentiment.
Same make.
Same model.
Same lousy gas mileage.
Both were parked next to each other at the grocery store.
They’d both run inside “for just a minute” and left the engines running.
And the doors unlocked.
So, I reached in and turned the keys, shutting off the engines.
Then I threw the keys down a sewer grate.
Maybe it won’t make a bit of difference in the end.
But, unlike these two assholes, I tried.

Fighting City Hall

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Remember the old saying that you can’t fight City Hall?
Well, those people were wrong.
City Hall cut me off while I was driving to work, so I chased it down and yelled at it when we got to the parking garage.
Harsh words were exchanged, and the next thing I knew City Hall had punched me in the gut.
So, I swung back and we fought for a bit, and I won.
By the time the cops arrived, we sorted out our differences and I drove off.
The next day, someone had keyed my car door.
Motherfucking City Hall!

Squeegie

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Every day, I drive to work on Culpepper Road.
And every day, the same homeless guy is standing there at the light.
He stands there with a squeegie and two buckets, offering to clean your windshield.
His cardboard sign says he’ll do it for free, God bless you, and the usual crap.
But he’s really expecting a buck. Or five.
If you give him money, he uses the bucket full of soapy water.
If you don’t give him money, he splashes the other bucket on your car.
What’s in the bucket?
Drive by there, don’t pay him, and find out.

My Spy

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An assassin is following me.
He’s an expert at this. Wouldn’t suspect a thing if you saw him there.
Friendly. Polite. Well-groomed.
But I know what he’s really doing:
Following me.
So, I turn the tables on him.
I put on a disguise, cover my tracks, and follow him.
He doesn’t suspect a thing. Doesn’t break cover. Maintains his routine.
Excellent.
I corner him in an alley, a knife to his throat.
He’s surprised and denies being my assassin.
Just like all the rest.
I bury him in the park with the others.
And wait for another to follow me.

The Kraken

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Off the coast of Port Byron, the seas boil with tentacles.
The Great Kraken has returned for its Solstice Sacrifice, part of the pact our ancestors made with the beast.
We load up a boat with murderers, thieves, and the feeble, lowering it into the water and sending its shabby crew to their doom.
Some townsfolk make a picnic out of the occasion.
They toast the ancestors with champagne, and feast on kraken tentacles, boiled in butter.
We give up our own, the Great Kraken reciprocates.
One taste, and you’ll agree that we got the better end of the deal.

Creative Juices

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We let the children play with their toys and draw with crayons for an hour.
Then, the valves open and knockout gas puts them to sleep.
Nap time.
When they wake up, they have no memory of our hooking up the spinal shunts and draining them of their creative juices.
Looking around the room, they pick up the crayons and stick them in their mouths or put them up their noses.
The toys are used to smash other toys or hit other kids.
Eventually, they learn to play and draw again.
And we are ready to harvest more creative juices.

Where do babies come from?

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Where do babies come from?
After the Cobalt War, they come from The Baby Factory.
Deep underground, shielded from the radiation and toxins in the air and soil, geneticists assemble the next generation.
Or, if we can’t remove enough of the contaminants, the last generation.
This time, the scientists are working on adding thick hides, culled from rhinoceros genes.
The babysitters have a high suicide rate, watching wave after wave of monsters come from the labs, dying from horrifying diseases and tissue rejections.
The ants crawl over their tiny, broken corpses.
“Looks like it’s your turn now,” I tell them.

The Gliders

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Observer gliders soar through the clouds, spreading the latest batch of chemicals cooked up by the Weather Division.
“Rain will be purple today,” they said.
The chemicals are meant to turn the rain purple, but the rain is more pink than purple.
And when we catch it on our tongues, it burns.
Everybody runs for cover, and we watch the streets sizzle with acidic fury.
Then, the storm passes, and we wander the pock-marked streets stained with the melted-off paint from cars.
The Weather Division promises orange rain tomorrow morning.
We put on our gas masks and go to sleep.

A Medical Issue

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The minister’s absence was explained as a “medical issue.”
He sat in the morgue, waiting for the coroner to find a body similar to his for substitution.
“What about DNA?” asked the coroner.
The minister rolled up his sleeve. “Take blood from me now, compare it to itself when they bring you the body back.”
The coroner nodded, took a needle from the supply closet and swabbed the minister’s arm.
The minister smiled, and then his strange face went slack.
The new minister entered the room, patted the coroner on the shoulder.
“Poisoned needle?” he said.
The coroner destroyed it.