Thing Eight: Dystopia...

Telling Tales.

A Micro Short Story by: Sean McGovern

For Megan.  Fifth time took.

“There’s only two types of people who get coffee in a bar – the owners, and the dd’s.  Which are you?”  The man who asked the question was taller than interviewee, blond to his black hair, clean shaven to his beard.  “You sure as hell don’t look like you own this place – shit, you don’t look like you should even be in here – look at the clientele!”

“You’re trying very hard to be Doctor Who,” the interviewee said, “you know that?  Of course you do – you’ve always been a smart one, Shithead.”

“Don’t call me that,” Shithead roared.

“Sorry, sorry, Xander, sorry,” in Interviewee said.  “It’s a fitting nickname, though – I mean, it really fits.  You, I mean.”

“Xander?”  The quitrent asked, and then he smiled.  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“No, you ass – Shithead.”

“Oi!”

“And stop it with the thrice damned Doctor Who shtick,” the interviewee said, “it’s so fucking annoying when people try to become the people on TV!  For fuck’s sake, Shithead, you’re you!  You’ve gone on and on about how fucking horrible the human race is, how much you hate the world – and you’re trying to act like a fifty year old TV show about how people are awesome!”  The Interviewee put his coffee cup on the saucer.  “How long have you been banging on and on about peasants?  Eh?  About all of”

“How long are you going to settle for being a sidekick?”

The interviewee paused mid-slander, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“I mean, face it, Myersk – you’re second string.  Now that you’re toothless and…whatever, discovered religion or something – you’re superfluous.  You know what we’ve seen in our investigations?  They miss the old you.  The old Myersk, the one who burned part of the city to the ground because…what?  Why did you do that?”

“There was a hive of your lot there,” Myersk whispered.

“Along with a bunch of civilians.”

“Yes,” Myersk whispered – but his eyes didn’t waver.

“And you made life better for a lot of people with that,” Shithead said, “the clean-up crew, the builders, the families that could move into the city – a newer, sleeker part of the city, mind you, none of those old rough edges.  And what happened that day?  What made you agree to it?”

Myersk said nothing.  He sipped his coffee.

“That…uh, that wasn’t rhetorical – we never could place why mister ‘I like bashing things really, really hard’ suddenly went to demo school.”

Myersk’s eyes glazed slightly, his mouth bowing towards a smirk.  Shithead turned, and followed his line of sight to the TV.  It was a large flat-screen number with picture in picture.  Both images were of the commercial sector, where two groups were assembled, one in street close, the other in riot gear.  “You and I both love this,” Shithead said, turning back to Myersk.  “I’m just honest about it.  You’ve let Jekyll win out.”

“No,” Myersk whispered.  “I’m just following the natural cycle.  Sit.”  When Shithead did, Myersk raised his hand, summoning the waiter.  Shithead ordered a top shelf beer.  Myersk nodded to the waited and said “please” when he raised his cup.  “I could have been one of you, it’s true – and you could have been one of us.  You’re smiling at that because you know we’ll lose.  Look at those kids.  Post hippy idiots who think love will win out, not knowing that their own bestial nature will win out if, that is, they’re smart.  And some of them, Shithead, are very smart.  They’re honest, both in their naiveté, and in their fear that they are exactly what they’re fighting against.  Not many, mind you – I’m not so blind.  But enough.  I’m smiling that they’re still there, still trying to prove that they can be more than they are.”

“Pretty speech,” Shithead said, taking his beer from the waiter.

“Thank you,” Myersk said to the waiter, “can I, sorry to do this to you, no rush, but can I get a double of the honey whiskey?  Thanks – don’t rush it, just, when you get the chance.”  He turned back to Shithead.  I really think that, deep down inside, you and the majority of your side are suffering from worse self-loathing than me.  I mean, so many of your supporters are anti-science, anti-government that isn’t them, and, yet, there they are, happily protected from me by cameras in every store and two on every corner.  It’s the old ‘you shouldn’t be scared of the law pulling you in if you have nothing to hide – but everyone has something to hide.  You, me, everyone here.  But you lot say we’re two faced, and no better than you – I say we’re all multi-facetted, just gems catching the light.”

“You’re writing off a lot of people who believe in the cause,” Shithead said.  “A lot of them believe in the better world we’re making.”

“And you’re neglecting something in my words.  ‘More than what they are’.  That can be anything.  Even monsters.”

“So why be on their side?  Why not ours?”

“Because…that.”  He pointed at the screen.  One of the street clothes was on the ground, a scrum of riot gear piling over him.  “I went to get a tea this morning.  Some jackass in a sports car plowed through the first shift hotdog stand, killed five people, and your news networks cut to…some whore celeb with more dong than brains getting arrested for killing his prostitute.  Again.  And the coverage was sympathetic.”

Shithead nodded.  “We also aren’t covering the eastern European genocide – any of them.”

“Also true.  Or those in Africa.  Or the slaughter going on in South America.  Or the continuing meth problem in the mid-west.  But who gives a shit?  Here’s a celeb in his jockey’s and look at that bulge.”

“That’s an old complaint,” shit head said.

“When I was seven, a black kid got shot and killed next to me at summer camp.  They never found the killer despite forty-five eye witnesses.  I was washing his brains out of my hair, and no one lifted a finger to help his family because, to you, it didn’t matter.  A small death in the suburbs.  The local news covered the fact that our new president played saxophone.”  Myersk sipped his coffee.  “How many men do you have outside for me?”

“Forty,” Shithead said.  “Going to come quietly?”

“Why not?  I’m getting a vacation from this hell.”  Myersk stood, taking out his wallet.  He left far too much on the table, and turned to walk through the door.  “And Shithead,” he said.  He looked over his shoulder.  “I’m just following the natural order.  The moon waxes and wanes.  Time goes by.  Table turn.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  Whatever and ever, amen.  So what happens when Jekyll’s time is done?  Where will Hyde be?”  He smiled, and there was a shift in his expression, the dour cast giving way to something that seemed humored by the whole world, almost childlike.  “See you in the funny pages.”

Myersk broke into a run, smashing through the door, grinning wide into the flashing lights and raised guns.  “What,” he laughed, “no cameras?”  He began loosening his belt.