(This is part three of a short story. It is written as a script in
case I talk someone into making this into a TV special.)
By SJ Otto
I washed the powder down with Bubble-fest. The powder had very
little taste. It was kind of bland.
The DJ began playing music by the Chop Hoppers. The song was
called “Gag Me- Mag Me.
SONG:
Just gag me – mag me,
I wanna gag mag,
I wanna mag mag,
I want to puke him up
just like a house haunter
So I can puke up a
lousy 1 percenter[1]
I wanna grow up to be
a fly,
Sail through the open
sky,
Just gag me – mag me,
I wanna gag mag,
I wanna mag mag,
Blood flows from my
humble schtyck,
My brain slogs down on
a gothic shit,
I want to wear the
clothes of a 1 percenter,
Gag, mag and chill,
After I kill,
After I kill me a 1
percenter.
A few minutes later I heard another song and it was also about
killing the1 percenters. A few more songs and there was another about killing a
1 percenter. A few minutes later another one.
HARLEY: Is there some kind of a theme to this music—wanting to
kill a 1 percenter?
HILDA: Yeah. It is a common dream. Why not? The 1 percenters
came up with the idea to eat us.
HARLEY: But it wasn’t just the rich who wanted to eat people.
The majority of society voted to do that.
HILDA: But it was the rich, the 1 percenters who came up with
the idea first.
HARLEY: It seems to me like wealthy people have done a lot for
society. Besides, wouldn’t you like to be rich someday?
HILDA: Me rich? That’s impossible. Besides, even metal people
rarely become 1 percenters. You’ve been brain washed. The 1 percenters want you
to believe you can be rich. That way you support all their rights.
HARLEY: Well that just makes sense.
HILDA: No. Not really. Most metal people never get rich and all
the privileges that 1 percenters enjoy go only to them. Most metal people will
never get to enjoy the spoils of life—other than the right to eat meat—which is
people like me.
HARLEY: Enough politics, let’s dance.
Finally we found something we had in common. Hilda was a good
dancer. She really let herself go and we both drifted into the music. The music
was actually pretty good, somewhat like goth or punk rock in the late 20th century.
Lasers crossed the dancefloor and a fog machine spewed colored smoke across the
room.
Then I saw something amusing. There was a couple wearing Pol Pot
chic.[2] It was the classic solid black with
red and white checkered ties and the black Mao hats.
HARLEY: Wow! I didn’t know that chickens could be Pol Potists.
HILDA: Yes. Chickens like any culture of rebellion.
HARLEY: I kind of like them.
HILDA: For someone who made fun of my Marxist books I’m
surprised you like them.
HARLEY: I like their parties. They have cool clothes and they
like really cool rock music.
HILDA: Did you realize Pol Pot was a Marxist most of his life?
HARLEY: No. Do you have one of his books?
HILDA: No. He didn’t write any books. He just helped write some
documents and no one signed their name to them.
HARLEY: Maybe your books aren’t so useless after all.
Suddenly a young attractive slightly plump girl with rings
painted around her eyes and streaks of purple in her black hair came up to the
two of them.
RATCHET: Who is this boy?
HILDA: This is Harley.
RATCHET: Hi. I haven’t seen you around here before.
HARLEY: This is my first time at this club. I just moved to
town.
RATCHET: My name is Ratchet. What do you do for a living?
HARLEY: I work at Flatco. I make sales.
RATCHET: Wow that is a strange job. I never knew anyone who did
sales before.
HILDA: That’s what I like about him. He’s strange.
RATCHET: What kind of music do you like?
HARLEY: I like Jim Bimbo, the Orange Clockers and some oldies
rock.
RATCHET: Then why are you here?
HARLEY: I wanted to try something new.
RATCHET: Well this will do it.
Soon another girl came by, a little taller and a red head.
PONNARY: Hello Upyr. (She was looking
at Hilda).
HILDA: Hello Ponnary.
HARLEY: They call you Upyr?
HILDA: That’s my clubbing name.
HARLEY: Wow! You all drink Bubble-fest.
RATCHET: It’s the least gaggy of their stupid drinks. I like
Whisky breathers when I can drink what I want.
HARLEY: You drink alcohol?
(Hilda hits him in the
arm.)
PONNARY: What are you a cop?
HARLEY: No. (He realizes he made a mistake as most
chickens actually drink.) I’m just noticing things. I drink too. I
like butter scotch beer.
RATCHET: Where do you get to drink a sissy drink like that?
HARLEY: Um! Uh…Joe the bartender gets it for me.
PONNARY: You have some weird friends. The only chickens I know
who can buy that stuff work in bars.
HARLEY: He works in a bar.
HILDA: We were just about to dance is that OK with you gals if
we go to the dance floor?
RATCHET and PONNARY: Sure.
As the music droned on, we went to the dance floor.
HILDA: You’re not doing so hot. You clearly have not been around
chickens before.
HARLEY: I didn’t realize you all break the law. You all drink
alcohol which is illegal.
HILDA: We don’t follow a lot of rules. Those rules are for those
who eat us. We don’t really care if our meat is the best. We aren’t here in
this world for that. Most of us feel our lives are a rip off anyway.
Also, chickens have crappy jobs. Remember that. And we can’t
afford a new car as the one you drive so don’t tell my friends you even have a
car. Also don’t tell them where you live. They will notice you don’t live
around other chickens.
HARLEY: OK. I get it. I think I can handle this now. Give me
another chance.
HILDA: OK. Let’s go.
HARLEY: Upyr! Where’d ya get a name like that?
HILDA: It just means vampire. It’s an ancient dialect and it
sounds cool. I like it.
It was about this time that the drug I took started to kick in.
I started to feel woozy and then something like an amphetamine rush came over
me. The lights began to look brighter. The colors in things began to seem as if
they were streaking in and out of where they were supposed to be. I was
beginning to feel very paranoid.
HILDA: I see you haven’t used R-25
before.
HARLEY: No.
HILDA: drink what’s left of my vodka.
She took it out of her black leather purse and I chugged it. By
the time we got back to where we were standing, Hilda’s two friends had walked
off and a couple was standing there. There was a tall husky guy with spiky
blond hair and a short thin girl with red hair.
HILDA: Snake and Arf. How are you two doing?
ARF: Real good Upyr. (They were holding Bubble
-fest). Who is your newest guy friend?
HILDA: This is….
HARLEY: Piranha. (I said, interrupting her
before she could finish.)
HILDA: Right. Piranha.
After all, everyone else had a club name. Why shouldn’t I.
ARF: Is something wrong Piranha? You don’t look so good. Did you
take a little too much R-25?
HILDA: I tried to warn him. He hasn’t taken any drugs for a long
time. He was trying to quit. So tonight he took a dose and decided to go off
the wagon again.
By now, I was starting to giggle and I had a hard time looking
people in the eye. As the night went on I was really flying on the stuff.
SNAKE: We have a party later tonight as Bella’s house. You and
your dude can come if you want.
HILDA: Normally I would make a night of it. But I think I’ll pass
tonight. (She turned to me.) Why
don’t we finish the night off at my house? We can get some more Vodka and hang
out there.
HARLEY: I agree. (They
began walking to the door.)
HILDA : I think you’ve had enough of chicken town for tonight.
HARLEY: But when we get to the liquor store I will pick up a
pack of Ass-whole Stout.
So we headed to my car and my night in the chicken town came to
an end. It was strange to be such an outsider. I was in a world I knew so
little about. These people even had their own culture. But it was fun. They
made the best of their short lives.
To Be Continued….
Daft Punk - On Da Dancefloor
[1] A
common reference to the other main class of people in this society and their
common label…the 1 percenters.
[2]
Pol Pot Chic is a subculture that draws inspiration from the ancient guerrilla
leader of Cambodia. But it is made up more with style than politics. Pol Pot is
now an iconic personality similar to that of Vlad Dracula. That is where Bram
Stoker got the name for his vampire Dracula. Vlad Dracula was also known as the
Prince of Wallachia (1431–1476/77), a member of the House of Drăculesti,
also known, using his patroymic as Vlad Drăculea, Vlad Dracula or
Vlad the Impaler.
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