Tag: dystopia

The Smell of Gasoline

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There’s one thing worse than the smell of gasoline, and that’s the taste.
Murloney’s boys dragged me to this warehouse and tied me to this chair so they could splash me with high-octane cologne.
“You missed behind the ears,” I said, and they punched my lights out.
I woke up to a spotlight in my face.
Laughing, glasses clinking. Groans from dozens of other guys tied to chairs.
All on top of a gigantic cake in the middle of a party.
“Happy birthday, boss!” said a goon. “Sixty years young!”
Mulroney laughed. “I’ll take my time blowing out these candles.”

Lawnmower

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I don’t like mowing the lawn.
So, I bought a robotic lawnmower.
It’s eco-friendly, running on batteries charged by solar cells. And the motor is very quiet, almost a whisper.
This way, it can run during the day or at night.
It knows where to mow using a set of guide wires I’ve buried along the property line.
Just charge, set, and release inside the invisible fence.
The next morning: a beautifully-cut lawn.
And three dead hookers on the grass.
The first time I ran it, there was only one.
I’ll bury these three next to her.
Under the grass.

Lottery

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We entered the lottery, hoping for a big family.
It’s not likely though. The government reduced the prize pool again.
We’ll be lucky to get a dog.
As a pet. The Lottery Law says no eating pets without government approval.
What happened to us? Where did we go wrong?
Hope? Change?
How did we get from The American Dream to the government sterilizing and executing people for eating a stupid dog?
Madness.
Maybe, just maybe, we’ll win. We’ll get the big family.
The lottery agent whispers “No laws against eating children anymore, you know.”
And they taste better than dog.

You only die twice. Or three times. (How about four?)

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Resurrection procedures have never been entirely reliable, but over time they’ve become more reliable than longshot treatments such as chemotherapy for advanced pancreatic cancer.
The insurance companies won’t cover the procedure.
And they’ll drop coverage for the revived patient, too.
“Our responsibility ends at death,” they say.
But they won’t pay off on life insurance claims, either.
Congress subpoenaed the heads of the insurance companies for a hearing, grilled them for several days, and passed a set of toothless legislation concerning the matter.
Since then, have you heard of a Senator or Representative dying in office?
Me either.
Strange, that.

The Great Deal

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Five billion Zimbabwean dollars sounds like a great deal of money, but it’s worthless.
Due to hyperinflation and three devaluations, what was once on parity with the American dollar became worth just one trillion trillionth of a cent.
Since printing and reprinting that money was impossible, the Zimbabweans went electronic with all payments.
Never mind that many Zimbabweans don’t have access to electricity. And by the time everybody’s pile of paper moved over to the e-banking system, the digit limit was reached and all accounts rolled over.
Now, they use American dollars.
(Which will one day do the same thing.)

Mother In Lawless

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The old woman with the gun is my mother-in-law.
But she’s more like a mother-in-lawless.
She breaks into banks with ease, breaking out of jail and nursing homes even easier.
We’re not a close family, but we’re kept under a close watch as hostages. Instead of knitting us sweaters, she keeps us tied up and gagged.
And I don’t drive the getaway car because I’m a part of her gang. I drive it because she’s a horrible driver and her license was revoked by the state.
I’m only doing it to save lives.
Now put the money in the sack.

The Vampire in the Basement

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The tanks are old and need replacing. Blood is leaking from the ceiling again.
We used to have them in the basement, but hauling them upstairs during every flood became a hassle.
The Master has the strength of ten, but the patience of a child and the arrogance of a nobleman.
Nor do the members of his coven perform any lifting beyond coffin lids.
Labor is for us, his daytime servants.
The work is steady, and as long as we don’t complain, we live.
The forecast calls for rain.
At least all we have to haul up are coffins now.

The War On Soup

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It is important to get to the front of the soup line as early as possible.
When the soup is running out, they roll the soup-drum into the kitchen and add water to fill it back up again.
No meat.
No vegetables.
No stock.
I know this to be true, because I worked in the soup kitchen for a year.
Until they threw me out for complaining that we were starving the people.
“If they starve, they should never have been born!” yelled the director.
“Without the born, we would have no meat!” I growled.
Happy now?
Finish your soup.

Death Cat

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The Deathcat wanders the nursing home hallways, poking his head into each doorway and sniffing the air.
He jumps up on a bed and curls against an old woman with tubes in her mouth, nose, and arms.
He knows that this woman will die.
Across the hall, another old woman points and laughs.
“Deathcat strikes again!” she cackles. “Have a nice trip, Sadie!”
The nurses have had to put up with her for over two years.
But not anymore.
They wait for her to fall asleep, and then sprinkle catnip on her bed.
Deathcat sniffs the air, following the scent.

Cinco

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We prepare for Cinco de Mayo.
Putting boards over the windows, pulling the cars into the garage and locking it.
We don’t bother gardening in April anymore. It would just get torn up and thrown into our driveway or on the roof.
The press doesn’t call it rioting anymore. They keep saying it’s a peaceful demonstration. A parade.
Say that to our former neighbors, who watched their homes burn down.
We got lucky that year. Only the shed got hit.
The fence had new razor-wire on it.
Pull the gates shut, and load your shotgun.
And happy Cinco de Mayo.