Not Chapter One
Just two four floors below me, right now, in that room they
call the large conference room, a meeting is taking place. Everyone's gone to
it, except for me. What are they all talking about? They're talking about the
re-structuring of this here Library Division, and there's also a video
Interlink-up with our overseas shops. Yesterday, three managers including my
own were frog-marched out. Now everyone's probably having it all explained to
them. And why am I not there? Because these things need no
explanation. It's completely out of my hands. What am I supposed to do
about it? Oh I know what's going on in there. I can imagine the speechifying from that narcissist Jack, and then there'll
be tears from that crazy woman who in her spare time wearing too much lace
reads crystal balls, and then it'll all be over and we'll go on with our
miserable lives.... Because we're never going to be free of this place, never
really free, until we're fired or dead. Sometimes things just have to be
such-and-such a way, you know? So why go there? A whole hour
with maybe ten minutes of reality. Now let me get through this, typing
here, am I the only one who hates how phony
everything here is? I mean, the place is a wreck, one of the higher-ups has
been beating up women left right and centre and this place is getting old real
fast. So this is my life, here in the middle of it all I am, writing away. Not
in chapter one but rather in a chapter (I think) may be near the end. Maybe
it's the third-last chapter.
I haven't heard anything about the
women to tell you. No-one I've talked to has had anything to say, sorry. I
can't just start digging into the dirt because I've never been a dirt-digger. I
did hear from Angela that there had been 'rumours,' but of course I couldn't
just go to her and ask pervy-like 'What rumours?' But
the place is coming to pieces. I'm supposed to be listening to the reasons why
three managers were frog-marched out of here yesterday but instead I'm writing
this to you. I'll continue to listen. Such hypocrites they show themselves to
be when it hits home. They weren't so caring in the past. I don't know. I wish
I had better information for you, but I don't.
What was that song, ninety-nine years in the county jail? Something country. All I have is my memory now. If I was
offered a book rather than a writing pad to do with as I will, what would I
choose? I don't know anything about that world now. Beyond this cage I suppose
things are going on as they usually have. Babies born, graves dug. Trade. If anyone's been looking for me, I haven't heard. Not
a scintilla, not a shred. I can pretend I'm communicating with Cath though. Who knows? maybe her
descendants will get this years from now. I can pretend she has a daughter or a
son. I think I'm getting old because the scars don't heal very quickly at all. I
don't know why he doesn't just kill me. I have nothing to tell him. I'm not
working for our rivals in the private sector, I told him. No-one's paying me
anything, I told him. Maybe he's just a simple sadist. Ninety-nine years in the
county jail. Was I always suspect? I suppose not being
so keen on going to meetings might have had something to do with it. Or perhaps
some messages got out. Why am I lying to myself? Why not think back. Think back
to what happened before now. It's right there, plain
as the nose on my face. The murderer, and what I said
about him. Funny I was right about that. But I shouldn't have gotten into
taunting her about being so right. That wasn't the right thing to do.
The rumours I didn't hear; yet, Cath, once I'd heard that there had been rumours, I jumped
to the natural conclusion: of course there were other bodies stashed somewhere.
(There was only one, as I'm sure you know.) Then I had to get arrogant, and
that destroyed my mole-work. There's so much more to tell you! I was there in
the middle, and I picked up a lot of what had been. The
drunken broadcasting. "Just a little nip."
You know who I'm talking about. Did I tell you that? This is hard to do, so
shut off from my notes. I wonder if I can re-construct it all somehow. Piece by piece, re-writing what I've already written. Just
to get it all down ... even if my captors are simply gathering evidence to use
against you? Who knows? Maybe you're in the cell beside me.
Not Chapter One
I've talked about this before. When everything went crazy
around here, I got onto Facebook and started writing
provocative things. I shouldn't have, obviously. As it turned
out, in fact. Bad, bad idea. I wanted maybe to
shoot the moon. Maybe it was time to get caught. So I got into an argument, a pretty major
argument, with someone I barely knew. I don't know who was trolling who. But it
ended with her writing a couple times, "Fuck you!" and then 'unfriending' me. It all seemed fair enough. However, that's
where it all ended. I was no longer good as a mole. I didn't care much about
losing my job at the company; I was worried about losing my job as a mole. What
am I getting at? Three days later, my manager demanded a meeting. I was on
watch from then on. Seems that Facebook girl had
decided to go digging and she found some other stuff. I guess I wasn't the
perfect mole in the first place. I think I'm too ... unhinged. But the Cause,
the Cause needed everyone it could get! Regardless of failure or success! I
don't think the Cause really misses me. I don't think they've lifted a finger
to get me out of this, I don't know, Turkish prison. The typewriter works. Why
are they letting me use a typewriter? It's an old model, manual. Manual relates
to fingers, doesn't it? Finger-powered. The word came
about to distinguish. They're reading this. I'm all in.
Maybe there's always
cover-ups at large corporations. A corporation, of course, is like a
body. Like a person. There's always places to hide
stuff. You can never really know a person, not really. There's
always little corners stuff can go into. All I said was, "Better check his
basement," and sure enough they checked his basement (not because of me!)
and everyone wondered how he had hidden it for so long. Then I had to shoot my
mouth off. Proudly. "I knew it all the
time." I don't think I told you about that bit, did I
Cath? Or will I? I'm re-writing something I wrote a
long time ago. When I knew where I was, I think. So the corporation hid him,
and he hid the body. Last I knew, they were still
trying to identify her.
Chapter Two
How did it get to be this way, he wrote with an inkpot
and a quiver and a quill, why did I ever get myself involved in such a
place? Someone griped that the WDC couldn't have cut-throat layoffs like other
corporations 'because it's not like other corporations!' and I couldn't very
well tell him that one of the biggest reasons I chose to work there was because
it was a corporation. I couldn't expect him to understand that: I wanted to
work at a really big place because the last place I worked at was really small?
A long time ago I did high school theatre. I really enjoyed doing it. I didn't
go into theatre after that because my older brother did and I didn't want to be
so like him so I went into television. When I was there, everyone was saying
they dreamed about working at the place I later worked--and moled--but
I didn't think it was possible. In fact, I thought it was a crazy idea to even
think of it. We thought of it as the pinnacle. But by the time I got to working
there, my views had turned against it, and I knew of it as a place of evil
(later as a place of murders committed by an SSS). And then time went on with
me working there, until I got contacted or until I made contact I can't
remember which. My contact, as it turned out, knew more gossip than I did,
which surprisingly surprised me--for information I never tried to get until I
was asked to get it.
The bodies will all be discovered. I
know there were at least five. Last I heard, they'd
only found one. At least, so said the rumours when I finally
asked around. Imagine such a thing. I'm sure it's gotten worse than
that, I'm sure of it, Cath. Are you ever going to
rescue me? They've moved me again. I can only tell you I think I'm somewhere in
Not Chapter One: 'The Ancient Ones'
Speaking. They tell me I'm recording.
The Ancient Ones tell me I am recording simply by speaking. The have been here
forever, relative to my insignificant species. We're nothing to them. But,
I said, Why are you so interested in me?
They said, Consider it like entomology.
Then they shivered ... like they were laughing. Sounded like a thousand wet
leaves rustling down the street. Or maybe overhead, dead,
wanting to die. So this is the recording? It's coming through? Of course
it is. I'm not mad. A couple days after that woman on Facebook
told me to Fuck Off, a couple Liberal politicians were accused of sexual
harassment. First there was our guy, then these guys. There was a pattern, I
perceived. So when the subject came up the next day, I said to whomever was in
earshot, "We, as a society, have to teach left-wingers not to rape."
This was an allusion to something else in the air. Probably not funny now, but
it seemed funny to me at the time. Two people laughed; one didn't. Maybe that
was when I blew my cover. What a terrible mole I was indeed! I mean, it's easy
to know what those people thought. I used to think that way too, when I was a
kid. All sorts of magical stuff. Superstitions.
Stuff about feelings over everything. Not 'positive
self-esteem,' that was invented past my time. I was either born too early, or
too late. I wonder what the one who didn't laugh eventually said?
How was it phrased?
Cath, hear me? You picked the
wrong soul for your mole. I can't keep my mouth shut, see? Still: are you going
to rescue me? I can't give you any clues now. I'm strapped to a table. I've had
my fingers cut off. All I can do is speak. Maybe I'm
telling them what they want to know. Are we their children? Their
mutant children? No, who would murder their children? Do you have any
children? I don't know the first thing about you, other than about that blog of yours. You must be working for some massive secret
organization. So I hope. Are you in contact with them? Is it like that? Or are
there cells with impossible interconnections? I'm not feeling any pain. They
must be professional narcotizers.
Not Chapter One
Just two four floors below me, right now, in that room they
call the large conference room, a meeting is taking place. Everyone's gone to
it, except for me. I'm not there because ... I am the subject of the meeting,
I'm sure of it. They know what I've been through. They know I've had contact
with the Ancient Ones and they know what the Ancient Ones have desired me to
do. But do they know if I have done what the Ancient Ones desired me to do or
don't they? Now let me get through this, typing here, knowing what I know. They
want me out, and they don't want me to go out with a bang. Hah! Just three
weeks ago I was approached and I spilled everything to Cath
and I started doing what she wanted. She's obviously obviously
been in touch with them too. And yet we don't really know what they're after,
we're just bugs to them. So why me, maybe why Cath? I may be a murderer. I may know where the
bodies are buried if they were buried. No more question marks! It's time for no
more question marks! I can feel their voices in the air, through the concrete
and the wood and the pipes! I have exposed them to ridicule! No more can they
say, "We never knew!" No more questions, for me or for them!
Everything is out in plain sight! The murderer and the murdered shall lie down
together in a field!
You contacted the wrong person and the
joke is on you. Sure I complained online about the place but little did anyone
know that I was behind the whole thing that is to say the whole thing all the
abuse and all the murders. I chose to not be inconspicuous. I decided to be
obvious at the WDC. But if I decided to be obvious then why was I hiding I mean
behind some kind of smokescreen through which I could not speak by being and
not being obvious I could destroy things in a couple of ways. I don't know if
what I'm saying is true I mean I don't know if I'm where I think I am anymore.
I think I'm in a simulation of some sort.
Chapter One
Not Sub-chapter One
That all just happened. We were driving through the
Canadian Rockies. (I'm writing in pencil, by starlight.) It was me, and Cath, and David was driving, and there was
a couple other people. We'd picked up Cath; she'd
been a hitch-hiker. We played cards, her and me. There was a twinkle in her
eye; there was a twinkle in mine. Her leg was pressing against mine. Imperative. We were in a Winnebago, driving through
the
"You know what I mean, don't you?"
you said. Pillow-talk, is it? We were made for each other, weren't we? We were
destined to be together, weren't we? After so long, after so many years apart,
two dim suns on opposite skies, always sensing something missing, some other glow somewhere. And we couldn't control it
because this is romance and it's destiny and it's not
our fault and it's got nothing to do with us. You wanted something and I wanted
something. I got you your information about the murders and you put it on the
Internet. Me, I was just tired. And bored. Why not be
reckless? Not being reckless hadn't done anything for me. Probably
the opposite. A coward at heart. What if I'm
still a coward? Even after all I've done for you, me, us?
Chapter
The meeting continues, somewhere
floors above me, not sure how many floors above me. Could be
a billion. They're talking about the leak, about the killer employee,
about the kickbacks to Kathleen Wynne. Of course we have to be kicking back.
The press releases all say, "The Wicker Dirigible is the air
transportation of the future!" It doesn't talk about all the birds killed
by our product. The birds see our airships, and they smell the wicker (which I
think is a good material for nests), and they get close to our dirigible, and fzzzwah! they're chopped into
little bits by our rotors. That's not in the press releases. It's a world of
corruption. In which wicker dirigibles manufactured by the WDC get government
funding. Am I nearing my end? What will they do to me? I know. They're going to
sic that sociopathic sexual sadist, that SSS, the
snake and the sound of tires deflating, on me. And so I write this, for Cath, for she will know what is what and she'll reveal the
truth to everyone and everyone will know! How many has the SSS killed? I hear
it's not just women. Thomas More. "How to be good in the
midst of evil." But was he right? Why didn't he say why he refused
to consent? Why did he wear a hairshirt? It was a
strange world back then, and it hasn't changed a bit. Human nature doesn't
change. It's the only thing that can't change; I'm resting my hopes on human
nature never changing.
My time today is near its end, Cath. I hope you're well, wherever you are. I don't know
what the future holds for us. The WDC is at an end. Every little stick will be
sold off for scrap. I've done some good, but I think my usefulness is at an
end. There's nothing left for me to do. I may disappear,
I hope you don't mind too terribly. But I worry about you, Cath.
What will happen to you? Now that this assignment is over, will you look for
another one? I wish I could help ... but I won't be able to. I'll be gone, long
gone. Take care, good luck. You have done something good. Think about me some
time when you're absently looking up to the sky. To the stars
in the sky.
Ending
there's no place like home ... there's no place like home .... there's
no place like home ..... there's no place like home ...... there's no place like home ....... there's no place like home
........ there's
no place like home ......... there's
no place like home .......... there's
no place like home ........... there's no place like home ............ there's no place like home
............. there's no
place like home .............. there's no place like home ............... there's no place like home ................ there's no place like home
................. there's no place like home .................. there's no place like home
................... there's
no place like home ....................
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