Dog walk story.

A cautionary dog walk story inspired by a podcast I heard this morning. 

 Six minutes 

© Kate A Hardy 2024

The military aide paced the few feet from his room to the president's, legs jittery, and an overwhelming urge to piss crowding out his terrifyingly black thoughts. He knocked; no reply, just the faint murmur of voices. Sweaty hand gripping the door handle he entered the shadowy room illuminated by flickering forms on the enormous flat screen TV. For a brief moment the reason why he stood in this room shrank away as he observed Charles Ingalls standing next to his wooden prairie house grasping a long, rectangular Amazon package. Then the enormity of this current moment in time screeched back to him like feedback. He approached the bed.

"Mr President, Sir . . .  Sir?" He stepped closer and observed the slumbering figure lying amongst rumpled satin sheets, the curious coppery hair wisped across baggy face-skin. A spent MacDonald's box rose and fell with the president's breathing, a few chips splaying onto his chest. "SIR! You must wake up NOW!"

The form stirred, a line of spittle staining the satin fabric as the face left the pillow. "Whaat?" 

As the aide searched for the million-times-rehearsed-words a scream threatened to escape. "Sir - there's been a launch!"

"Of whaat? My new yacht?  . . . is it OK?

"A nuclear attack, Sir. I have the football - you have to act now!"

The president shuffled up against the velour headrest with some difficulty, and scrabbled around in his bedding. "Where's the fucking remote - gotta turn that down . . . and get me some couwfee."

"There isn't time, Sir. We have . . ." the aide glanced fearfully at his watch -"Six minutes."

The president whacked away a piece of burger bun adhered to his temple. "I said, get couwfy - can't think about anything till I get my first cup."

The aide feverishly searched out a number on his phone and waited, sweat dribbling into his eyes.  . . "Mallory - get coffee up here in ten seconds!"

The president seemed transfixed by the flat screen images. "Seen this, Paul?'

"It's Martin, and no, Sir."

"S'great! AI mashup of Little House on the Prairie and Horny Redhead's Gang-bang Fiesta."

The aide turned his fevered gaze to the screen as Charles Ingalls drew a long pink plastic phallus from its Amazon casing. "No-no-no . . ." this must not be the last thing he saw before his eyeballs melted. A rapping on the door interrupted his manic search for the remote amongst pizza boxes and tissues.

Mallory walked in with a cafetière on a tray, and placed it onto the night table, eyes averted from the rumpled president. His arm appeared in a practised way; an index finger and thumb tweaked her arse.

"Sir! Please!"

He sniggered. Then his expression clouded. "Hey, what's this shiiet - I said Starbucks!"

Mallory stepped back, noting the aide's fearful air. She harsh-whispered. "What's happening?"

The aide gulped in air. Nuclear strike - real . . . Mr President . . . I must tell you that we now have only three minutes!"

Mallory felt her bowels contract. "Aren't we supposed to lie down . . . eat plain yogurt, or something?"

" . . . I don't know . . . maybe." He placed the case on the bed and tapped the president on the arm. "Sir, we really have no time - for coffee, or anything."

The president groped a hand towards the cafetière. Martin felt his arm rise. He smashed the tray to the floor. The action appeared to wake the president.

"Really - they sending nukes? . . . Who?"

"We don't know, Sir. It's a submarine strike. It is your decision. Yours alone on our retaliation. We have two minutes."

" . . . Okay. Where are my glasses? Holy Fuck . . . where? . . . ah - here. Shit there's mayo . . ."

The aide grabbed the glasses, wiped them on the gold satin sheet and shoved them on the president's nose. They ran through the procedure.

The president peered at the menu.  " . . . Shall I just do eeny-meeny? or just blow all the fuckers away?"

The aide suddenly stood up. It was happening. Nothing could stop it. The president's burger-greasy fingers had ordered destruction - after a last second query about golf courses. The aide traversed the carpet and drew back the heavy curtains revealing a blue sky day. Not a cloud. Although there soon would be. 

Mallory sobbed quietly. Charles ingalls whispered obscenities about his amazon purchase. The president shouted into his non-cooperating phone.

The aide looked out at the trees. 

He didn't know the name of the trees, or the birds hopping about in their branches unaware of their coming extinction. He wished he had pursued the dream that his daughter had mentioned; that he had laughed at. A small wooden house, near a lake, far from everything. Her dear face swam before him. He slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled her number. 

The podcast: Youtube: Diary of a CEO, episode: Annie Jacobsen, nuclear War expert talks about her discoveries, her predictions, and her books. Fascinating, and worrying....

Beaux jours

The lovely days. 

It's worth all the cutting back, mowing, strimming, and all the other months of garden taming (attempted) to enjoy the first days of mid spring/early summer? - very advanced this year after loads of rain, periods of full on heat and very little frost. The roses are spectacular as is all other blossom; and as the 'normal' Saint Glace period (a few days around the 15th May) seems to be rainy rather than icy, we should have mountains of peaches.

We also had super helpful people staying in the form of nephew and partner who built a small greenhouse/lean-to with found windows and stone blocks, plus mowing and weeding, The Son planted early veg plants and I, fuelled with such help - what a difference team work makes! - got a load of other overdue outside jobs done.

A few pictures of the garden in its manic glory before everything heat-shrivels in real summer.

Londonia extract capitula 23

We're steaming along with the project, and felt it was time to put out another little taster - this one from chapter 23.

Only a few chapters to go, then a HUGE check through, mastering and then - how to get it out there... Watch this space.

Dog walk story

As mentioned in an earlier post - stories concocted on a dog walk then transferred to screen/paper when entering the house, as a stream of consciousness rather than something worked on at length. Flash fiction, but longer....

                                                                      G78.     

© Kate A Hardy 2024

 

I stretch my legs out under the desk, wincing slightly as the metal implants tug at my kneecaps. The pinstripe wool trousers are still rather too long but the medics assured me within a matter of sevdays my legs will attain their extra four cms. Of course, I should store the suit away - wait until the trousers fit correctly but I just need to adapt into my new persona completely.

 

"Trank!"

I wince again, not from the knee pain but from the fact that Benkins is calling me as he wheels himself in my direction. I fight the rising nausea that always threatens whenever I see his bizarre form. The product of an AWOL artificial creativity mishap some months back, Benkins is now half man-half grotesque vehicle, of sorts. He approaches, his fleshy wheel creating strange sticky noises as it passes over the shiny flooring. The other reason I keep away from him as far as is possible is his incessant use of the latest short-lang. Short-lang goes against everything I hold precious in this life where so little of any substance remains.

 

"Trank - sums done?"

I avert my eyes from the wheel and focus upon the compubanks stacked behind him.

"You mean, have I the figures for the number of new telephonic apparatus required for the lowest ranks, I assume?"

He sighs causing his robo-surgeon lifted cheeks to inflate as much as they can. "Talk norm, man."

"I am. This is normal - for what I have chosen."

He eyes me suspiciously with his pale irises. "Century?"

"Mid 20th. I like the clothing, the trappings, the words."

"Time-waste. Watch above . . ."

I know he refers to the occasional swooping on the higher ranks who might have assumed a bit too much freedom of choice. But my work is excellent; my control over what could be something explosive, well maintained. I turn and snatch up the figures as requested, handwritten on a sheet of luxurious paper. He takes the sheet and scowls at me.

"I sent mind question. Why not respond?"

I have had this procedure - it's very difficult to refuse it, but I hate the feeling of someone's questions snaking about in one's brain. Also, unless you develop the skill to its maximum you overhear and audibly digest all sorts of drivel that others are thinking or possibly trying not to think. I try an excuse that occurs.

"It gives me plurial headmals - and, recently I started receiving ancient televisual divertissements from the early twenty-first century. The worst being an example named 'who wants to be a millionaire'. The associated music made me want to kill someone."

The second part of the excuse is true and made me feel totally unnerved - enough that I've had the implant disactivated - something not strictly illegal but considered as very odd, veering on untrustworthy.

He grunts a reply and steers back to his work area, glancing back at me with incredulity. He's still peering at me when he's installed himself back in his work bay, those curious opal eyes darting about behind the replicate Ficas Benjamina plant. It wouldn't take much for him to whisper a few suggestions about me into certain ears or minds. I decide it might be a good time to double check those figures as when I had done it previously it had been following a rowdy night involving too many hooch sticks which tend to fog the mind, to say the least. 

Sighing, I stand up and take the currently functioning lift to the cleansing area. While the metal box descends, I wonder what Benkins does when encountering a broken lift; stairs and wheel not being a good combination... Maybe he lives in the office - has a suite somewhere in this enormous sterile place. I only ever enter the main door, show my palm to the digistar register and proceed to my desk; anything else is strongly discouraged, apart from a visit to the servo machines at mealtimes.

The lift jolts as it stops at the basement. I cease thinking about Benkins and pass through the security door into the steel corridors of the formicages. Why this name has been employed I don't know - from the French, meaning ants. Maybe antcages doesn’t have such an easy ring to it. 

A base worker waves me over.

"Cleanse room free, if you are going in."

I wish I could just say, thanks, but I'm just having a quiet stroll down here to think a few things over, but I'm here to count heads, and check thumbs. He opens the grating door, rusted at the bottom from countless showers. I pass through and go through the routine of undressing, carefully hanging my precious wool suit in the closet and pulling on the grey overall waiting on a hanger. Goloshes added, mask snapped on and rubber bonnet in place I open the door and nod to the worker. 

The lecopad and pen are ready in the zipped pocket. My stomach clenches slightly as I anticipate the noise that will ensue as the studded metal door gradually opens. I could just stop, collapse, feign death . .. but then that would be viewed as deeply suspicious, lacking in motivation, ignoring the common good, and possibly be found out to be a lie - if tests were deemed necessary. I sigh as loudly as the northerly gusts that will later flay my darkened apartment building, and nod to the door operator. 

They don't notice me for a few moments, even though the sliding door had pierced the air with its screech. I take in the perspective lines of the room; the ugly, green-tinged lighting that highlights the shining baldness of many heads, heads bowed in silent all-absorbing concentration - if it is concentration. I imagine more a sort of flickering visual captivity, eyes seeking every movement of the screens before them.

Then the gathered realisation of the door noise enters their collective minds. Some attempt to stand up on long-forgotten legs. They fall back to the benches, mutter, eyes pulling their attention back to the scrolling images. Others shout, waving their fones, demanding the feverishly anticipated upgrades that are promised every sevdays but rarely arrive within the promised time. 

The door-guard fulfills her second job of pressing the sustenance release button, and the troughs begin to fill with the usual beige sludge. A few minions look without interest at the steaming gunge; others, taking one last glance at their fones, place them territorially close to themselves before taking up the alu-spoons. This is the best moment to take the measurements. I pass silently behind each grey-encased back and watch fingers juggling clumsily with spoons. The increasingly large thumbs are causing problems with cutlery, and there is talk of tubes instead - the minions to be fed like baby birds. I pass the lazer counter over each thumb, requesting briefly that they be stretched out if they are still curled around the fone's black casing. 

No one has escaped; I doubt if they would have the brain capacity to even imagine such a thing. The thumb lengths are as I had previously logged. I glance once more over the long thin room, press the door release, and go back through the clothing routine, my appetite for a servo machine protein burger even more diminished after viewing the sludge.

The lift is broken. I take the stairs slowly, each metal pin under my kneecaps making its presence known. A distant, bright voice chirps from the area I have just left.

"Great news, partners. The awaited upgrade has been superseded! G78 will now be channeling all your feeds. Praise the Custodian!"

A muffled cheer leaks from the room beyond the showers.