The Metal-man and The Chicken-girl
(This is a short story written as a script in case I talk someone
into making this into a TV special.)
By SJ Otto
I came into the
Ranchararo cowboy bar. It’s complete with country music and a wooden bar area.
The seats and tables are also wooden. The bar seemed partial to the color
yellow. Wood isn’t used much today. Most bars are made with some type of
plastic or metal. These are modern times.
I went to a table, so
I could order lunch. Korvin Richardson was playing on the juke box. He is the
last person to win on "Country Mile High," the newest TV and computer
show that allows country singers to become instant hits.
Joe the Bartender
walked over to my table. I call him Joe the Bartender because that is the only
name I've ever heard him called.
JOE: How's your Trump
Hoover running?
ME: Smooth. I can
crank that up to 150 if I can find the right track to spin it on. It rides like
air. Of course it would, it runs on air rather than tires.
JOE: I think of all
the metal-men I have known you have the most piercings I've ever seen.
Joe the Bartender is a
metal-man himself. He has tattoos over most of his body and rings of all kinds
doing up and down his arm. Since he was wearing his bar tending uniform I could
only see those of his face and arms. I also have rings up and down both arms,
ear rings, a noise ring and tattoos on my face and arms.
ME: I don't look like
a chicken.
JOE: I couldn't serve
meat here if I was a chicken. What will you have for lunch? Want to try the
pork sandwiches?
ME: You know I can't
afford that kind of meet. I'm a working class metal-man. I'm not a 1 percenter.
JOE: We have a new
sauerkraut sauce for our chicken strips and we have a butterscotch beer. The
beer is not sweat. I know that is something you don't like.
ME: I'll start with
the beer. Then you can bring me a basket of chicken strips with that new sauce.
As Joe the Bartender
walked back to his station, I noticed a young blond girl in the corner of my
eye. She was very pretty. She wore a synthetic-wool-green and red robe. She was
tall, slender with long blond hair. To my surprise she walked to my table.
HILDA: Can I sit with
you?
ME: Sure.
She sat down.
ME: Need a drink?
HILDA: I'll have a
Rollo Colo.
ME: They have good
beer here. They also have a lot of good rum drinks?
HILDA: I can't drink.
I'm a chicken. And I don't even like to eat meat. It makes me sick just to look
at it.
I could tell right
away she was different. She had no Tattoos and no piercings. Of course I could
only see her neck, face and parts of her arms.
ME: I don't know many
chickens.
HILDA: That doesn't
surprise me. Not at all. You do meet them from time to time don't you?
ME: Sure. But I never
actually had drinks or dinner with one.
HILDA: Well now you
have.
ME: I'm not used to
seeing people up close with absolutely no tattoos and no piercings.
HILDA: That's because
you haven’t spent any time with chickens. I'll be you've never pinched at a
chicken before.
My eyes popped out and
my ears stood straight up. Did this women just imply she wanted to have sex
with me?
ME: No! I haven't.
HILDA: Maybe you
should.
ME: today?! With you?
HILDA: Why not?
ME: OK.
HILDA: We can go to my
apartment. It is only a few blocks from here. I hope you have a hover-car, most
metal-men do.
ME: The Trump Hoover
2030, top of the line. It's right outside.
We hopped into my
beast and away we went—60 per hour in town, on a foot of air, which is real
high and real impressive—especially for the chicks.
HILDA: There is a
liquor store over there. Pull up and go in and get me a fifth of vodka.
ME: I thought you
can't drink?
HILDA: What are you a
cop?
ME: Well, no!
HILDA: Then pull over
and get me some booze.
ME: Won't they drug
test you?
HILDA: Yes, but I know
when they will test me.
ME: How?
HILDA: There's a
pattern to their calls. I know how to beat the system. Besides! I can always
get some black market cleanser. It masks the chemicals they use to detect
alcohol.
ME: Wow! You're pretty
clever.
HILDA: Being a chicken
doesn't make me dumb.
We finally pulled up
to her apartment. It looked small on the outside. To my surprise it was also
small inside. It was the smallest home I ever saw. However it had TVs,
computers, laser-boxes, tarme tubes and all the modern amenities. The walls
were all blue. She had some tapestries on the wall and a poster from the latest
punk-ribo band the Severed Hog Heads. There was only one bedroom and it was
small.
Hilda went to the
kitchen and made a drink.
HILDA: Do you want a
drink? I have tonic water or white Bubble-fest.
ME: I'll take some
with Bubble-fest. I like that stuff.
HILDA: Let's go to my
bedroom.
ME: You don't waist
any time. No talking, no music to get us in the mood.
HILDA: I live fast and
I die young. Why waist time?
So we went into her
bedroom and before I could finish my drink she stripped naked. She was one of
the most beautiful sites I ever saw. She was thin and yet voluptuous. She had
average size boobs. She was blond all over except her pubic hairs which were a
sandy blond color. But what really stood out was that she had no marks of any
kind. No tattoos, no metal in her at all. It was something I never saw before.
It had a kind of beauty I never saw in any other women. Of course I was only 19
and she looked to be a lot older than me.
ME: You look older
than me.
HILDA: So what?
You get to live to be 120 and I will die before my 40th birthday.
ME: I didn't mean anything
bad by it.
HILDA: Just shut up
and take your clothes off!
Soon we were kissing.
And shortly after that we were embraced, both with our arms and our legs. I
rubbed and licked every part of her. She seemed fascinated with my many tattoos
and piercings. I had to take a few of the piercings off before we made love.
She was the best women I every slept with. After we did it about three times we
took a breather.
HILDA: Why do
metal-men and metal-women need so many tattoos and so much metal in your flesh.
Does it really take that much difference?
ME: We don't want to
be mistaken for a chicken.
HILDA: You've got
tattoos on every part of your body and metal as well?
ME: If I had it all on
one part of my body, maybe a leg...what if I lost my leg in a car accident and
it had all the tattoos and piercings? Then I would look like a chicken.
HILDA: Don't you have
ID that proves you are metal-man beyond a doubt?
ME: Yes. I guess we do
overdo it. I'm not sure why. Everybody wants to look their class. I guess that
is the main reason.
We sat together with
our arms around each other.
ME: I'd like to see
you again some time.
HILDA: Forget it.
ME: Why?
HILDA: We're not in
the same class. I can't even legally marry you.
ME: We could still see
each other.
HILDA: So you can live
a nice long life while I get butchered and served as some ones lunch
snacks...forget it.
ME: You know there was
a time when we couldn't eat other people. It was considered discussing and
sinful.
HILDA: That was before
the great animal die off of 2094. Before that people ate farm animals. My great
grandfather told me he knew when the great die off came that the wealthy would
start eating humans. The wealthy always have what they need. They always get
what they want.
ME: But I eat meat and
I'm not rich.
HILDA: The wealthy
always create a middle class that protects them from revolution. It’s a buffer.
They need some people to join in just some of their pleasures so those people
will think they are part of the rich class. That is where people like you come
in. Since the days of the Roman Empire there has always been a lower
class, a kind of plebeian. There always has to be the lower classes. In the
last few US centuries there were the "poor".... the
"poverty." We where killed off by the wealthy because they said we
lacked what it took to survive. That was called Social Darwinism. For a while
they kept us alive through welfare. After that, they got tired of the expenses
of those programs and they went back to killing us off. Usually they just kept
us from getting medical care when we were sick so we would die off early.
After the great animal
die off they decided to give us what we needed in return for our meat after the
age of 35 or so. Suddenly they needed poor folks, but they have to control us
and keep us from enjoying life's simple pleasures, such as drinking alcohol.
That is not good for the meat or liver. You know the name chicken used to be
used for a small bird.
ME: I knew that.
HILDA: They say those
birds tasted a lot like us.
You know the rich used
to say that God ordered them to eat meat. They also wanted chickens to believe
it was our God given purpose to provide meat to the rest of society. They like
us to take part in religion to take our minds off of our short and fun-less
lives.
She gets up and goes
over to a statue of Jesus that is sitting on a dresser.
HILDA: It just don’t
work for me. I’m just not feeling the magic.
ME: Screw history! I
still want to see you and you are more than just "meat" to me. You’re
smart. You’re smarter than most women I know.
HILDA: You mean smart
for a Chicken.
ME: Nooo!
HILDA: If I were
really that smart I could go to a school and get a degree that shows I have
specially needed skills. Then I could be reclassified as a non-chicken.
ME: Why don’t you do
that?
HILDA: Get real! They
need people who are technical. I just am not. It’s not possible. I’ve tried.
ME: I still want to
see you.
She continues to stand
at the statue. She looks over to me.
HILDA: You'll forget
me in time. Surely you realize there can be nothing between us.
ME: I don’t think so.
HILDA: Eventually I will
be your chicken strips and you can brag to your friends that you got to fuck
your food.
ME: Not funny.
HILDA: OK. I’ll
see you at least once more.
ME: How about next
Friday, about 7pm?
HILDA: Fine.
I got dressed then
gave her a kiss. This woman was different. I think often of how I had to see
her again. There is something exciting about someone who comes from a totally
different world. This woman was from the other side of the tracks and I knew I
could not forget her.
Surely in a democracy
there is some way to save a girl who is destined to be food. How could our
society do like this? If there is a way to break her out of her class I will
find that way.
The next day Hilda and
I were sitting in the Ranchero cowboy bar, I was sipping on a beer. She had a
Rollo Colo.
HILDA: By the way, I
don’t know your name.
ME: I’m Harley Atwood.
HILDA: Nice name. (Throughout
much of the conversation she is using a monotone voice that shows little
emotion.)
ME: By the way- how
are chickens killed for slaughter?
HILDA: The slaughter
house actually looks like a hospital. They lay us down on a bed and they give
us two different drugs, one Bufhulo,[1] is a narcotic to relax you. The other is a
fast action poison, Ionoax,[2] that
will leave our bodies before we are made into meat. We can drink it or we can
have it injected.
ME: That’s like the
old lethal injection executions they did in the late 20th century.
HILDA: Right—before
they went back to electrocutions. And they did that so the victim's families
could see the criminal’s suffer as they died. Lethal injection was too easy for
them. Before they could get closure they needed to see victimizers suffer. (Sarcastically.)
ME: You say that as if
there is something wrong about that.
HILDA: I just get
tired of all the brutality of this society. It seems like our leaders are
always killing someone. And people enjoy that.
ME: That’s the way
things have always been. It’s human nature. You can’t change that. I don’t
remember a time when criminals weren’t executed—unless you go way back in
history.
HILDA: Whatever. Don’t
you want to know what they do to us next?
ME: Sure. (By now
Hilda is beginning to get sarcastic.)
HILDA: They take our
bodies to a real slaughter house. They skin us, gut us and cut our arms and
legs into little strips. Some of our other meat is made into steaks. Some of
our guts get to be made into pet food. Fingers and other less fun parts are
ground up and used for chicken burger. You can eat my liver. (She looks up
at him with wide eyes.) Hey! The next time you get behind me, for sex,
you can take a bite of my rump roast. He! He! He!
ME: You think that is
funny!? It’s kinda gross.
HILDA: It is gross.
That is why it is funny. Ha! Ha!
Some of the least
edible parts are returned to the family to be buried. That way they have
something they can put in the cemeteries.
ME: Sounds nice.
HILDA: It’s real
peachy. (Now she is obviously being sarcastic.) Our meat gets sent to
restaurants or mega food stores. They die it red to look fresh. That’s because
human flesh can come out a dirty gray color. Then they fry our muscle strips or
steaks or cook us at about 350. Oowee…I’m sizzling! Good thing I’m dead or that
would REALLY HURT!
ME: OK that’s enough
about that. I’m starting to regret that I ever ate chicken. I’ve been eating it
since I was a toddler and I never thought that much about it before.
HILDA: I’ll bet you’re
thinking about it now.
ME: Yes.
A few minute later the
couple decided to go back to Hilda's apartment. I was getting used to it by
now. I got in my hover car and the jets took us safely to her house.
We went in the front
door. As we walked into the living room, I noticed a whole big book case full of
books. She had, authors that I’ve heard of, but I never actually saw their
books before; Marx and, Engels, Stalin and Mao. Some of the authors I’ve never
heard of before,kwame Nkrumah, Antoni Gramsci and Herbert Marcuse.
ME: What are these
books?
HILDA: They’re
my collection of Marxist books.
ME: What are they
about?
HILDA: Overthrowing
governments, political philosophy, revolution, stuff like that.
ME: Has that ever
happened?
HILDA: A long
time ago. Russia and China for example.
ME: I thought they were
just evil governments where evil people just wanted to own everything.
HILDA: It was a
lot more complicated than that.
ME: No one overthrows
governments any more. Why would you even keep these books?
HILDA: I can
still dream. That is the one thing no one can take from me.
ME: But if no one can
overthrow a government why read this?
HILDA: Sometimes
dreams can come true.
HILDA: They’re
banned.
ME: I didn’t think our
government ever banned books.
HILDA: They say
they don’t, but these books were once in libraries, schools and stores. My
Grandmother told my mother she used to see them. But they just kept removing
them until they were all gone. You can read them on the internet, but you have
to go to the underground internet.
ME: What happens if
you’re caught with one?
HILDA: Nothing.
They’re not illegal to own, you just can’t find them.
ME: How did you get
them?
HILDA: They were
handed down from my Great Great Great Uncle.
ME: Wow! It's too bad
he didn't leave you anything of value, like gold coins. These books are surely
worthless. I don’t know anyone who would want them.
HILDA: They are
worth more than gold to me. (By now Harley has a stupid look on his face—a
look of cluelessness. The two walk over to a table Hilda has. They both sit
down and Hilda goes to the refrigerator.)
Do you want a Rollo
Collo?
ME: Sure! If that is
all you got?
HILDA: It is.
ME: We should go out
some time.
HILDA: I often
go to the Grim Reaper for fun with friends of mine.
ME: What is that?
HILDA: It's a
rave. It is like a bar except you can't get boos. It is strictly for chickens.
ME: That sounds like
fun. Can you take me?
HILDA: How will
you fit in looking metal?
ME: Maybe I can wear
long sleeves and take out my metal and use makeup.
HILDA: Hmm. It
is worth a try. You'll need the right kind of clothes. Chickens wear a lot of
orange and black. I think you will like it. There is lots of good music.
There is gag-me rock. I love that kind of music.
ME: I’ve heard of it,
but I never really listened to it.
HILDA: If we go
to the Grim Reaper you can hear a lot of that. The chickens really like that
music. It combines ancient blues with ancient goth, punk and gorp.[4]
ME: Don’t you folks
listen to any new stuff?
HILDA: We can do
that when we go to one of YOUR clubs.
ME: There are some
temporary tattoos we can use to make you look more like me. I’ll bet we can get
some fake metal as well.
HILDA: I
can’t wait to see how the metal people live. I always wondered about that.
ME: And we can drink
in my favorite club. You can two if people don’t think you’re a chicken.
HILDA: Let’s go to the
Grim Reaper next Saturday.
ME: It's a deal.
Early Saturday Night,
Hilda and I are working on my make up. It took a long time to get all of that
metal out of my arms. But I think I'm ready. We hopped in my Trump Hoover and
away we went, over the Ilse Koch fly-way, across town to the Grim Reaper located
just outside of Langcaster Gee-burbs, a suburb for chickens.
HILDA: Don't forget to
stop at a liquor store for some Hi-Po Vodka.
ME: Isn't it illegal
for us to take alcohol in this place.
HILDA: What is your
problem? Do you always follow all the rules all the time?
ME: I just don't want
to get in trouble.
HILDA: Stop worrying
and get us two half pints. They don't check for things like that. Don't be such
a rabbit.[5]
We stopped for the liquor and then pulled up in front of the old
warehouse that had been converted to a club. The building was very drab and
gray on the outside. We come up to the heavy metal black door where we were
visually inspected by two brightly dressed bouncers, big guys wearing black
flannel shirts and pants with orange muscle shirts. I paid the cover of $50 and
we went in.
The place was huge, and filled with plastic tables and chairs.
Most of the furniture was black, with orange lamps in the middle of the tables.
there were strobe globes, orange lasers and a spray of purple light drops
hovered in the air over the entire room. There was a stage along the wall with
two brightly dressed DJs with their small portable computers. There were large
speakers in each corner.
We sat down at a table.
ME: What do they have here besides Rollo Colo.
HILDA: Bubble-fest, Green Apple near beer, Funsta Red and an
ancient drink called Coke.
ME: I'll have Bubble-fest.
A short thin man with goggles on, came up to the table.
HILDA: Yes. Give him
$28 for two spoon bags.
ME: What is this
stuff?
HILDA: It get's you
buzzed up like alcohol only it's not as intense.
ME: Is this legal?
HILDA: I'm just going
to say this to you once. SHUT UP AND TAKE IT!
ME: OK! If you feel
that strongly about it.
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- MagMe.” The music thumped hard like some kind of disco
using deep bass licks. I could just about hear the lyrics.)
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[7]
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.[8] 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.
As Hilda and I laid in
her bed, we heard a knocking at the door. Hilda got up, put on a long red robe
and went to the front door. She answered and a women, who looked similar to her
walked in. She had a bright read dress and a green shirt. She also has long
blond hair, flowing to her waist.
Hilda let her in as if
she already knew her and why she is there.
As for me, I was hung
over —badly hung over.
REAGAN: Why are you
sleeping so late?
HILDA: That is what a lot of
normal people do!
REAGAN: Don't tell me
you were our all night again? (Just then I crawled out of bed, put on my
blue jeans and walked out of the bedroom.) You're sleeping with some guy?
HILDA: So what? You ought'a
get laid! It would help you think straight.
REAGAN: What's this
guy's name?
HILDA: Harley.
HARLEY: Hi!
REAGAN: Hi! My name is
Reagan. I'm Hilda's sister.
HARLEY: Oh! How nice
to meet you.
REAGAN: Hey! You have
tattoos. Are they real?
HARLEY: Yes. I'm a
metal man.
REAGAN: Really. I've
met a lot of metal people before. I never knew any to date chickens before.
HARLEY: There is as
fist time for everything.
REAGAN: I've never
really known any metal people that well. I've always admired the metal people.
You folks work so hard and you follow the old fashion work ethic.
HILDA: These people don't
work any harder than you do. They are born metal people. They don't earn that
position.
REAGAN: You're just
jealous that you are not smart enough to move up from the chicken class. If you
can't test your way out it is your own fault.
HILDA: Oh shut up! The only
thing that makes a metal person better than me is the parents they were born
from.
REAGAN: You could be a
metal woman if you just went to college and studied hard. Being a chicken is
your choice.
HILDA: And what is your
excuse?
REAGAN: I'm fine with
being a chicken. I've done my best. I admit I'm not smart enough. I'm not metal
woman material.
HILDA: I may not be college
smart, but I'm not stupid either. At least I can see how stupid this system is
and at least I can hate it. You're so stupid you just make up excuses for this
system and justify it with all the religious crap you believe.
REAGAN: There is
nothing stupid about being religious. God made me a chicken because that is my
purpose in life. When I die I will reap my just reward in heaven. You will get
nothing but hell.
HARLEY: So you're a
Christian? (I asked Reagan.)
REAGAN: Yes. And you?
HARLEY: Yes. I don't
go to church. But I consider myself a Christian. I was raised a 3rd class
Baptist. But since I've gotten older I just don't go to church anymore. I still
believe in Jesus and I hope to go to heaven some day.
REAGAN: I do go to
church, every Sunday. I belong to the 32nd Street Megan Baptist
Church. I believe that my place in heaven is more important than what I get out
of this world. I also belong to a Bible study group, The
Fishermen Chapter.
HARLEY: I've heard of
that group. I haven't really thought that much about religion since my late
teens. I don't read the Bible, but I feel it is just as important
to have faith in God and a moral sense of right and wrong. I just don't think
it is necessary to go to church all the time and study a book. And what about
you Hilda?
HILDA: I'm an atheist. I
believe that religion is just used by our government to give chickens false
hope.
HARLEY: What about
metal men like me? Does the government want me to be religious?
HILDA: It's really not that
different. As long as you believe in heaven you don't have to worry about what
happens in this world. You don't have to care about this world because you
believe it is just temporary and not important. God tells you it is OK to eat
people, so that is what you do.
HARLEY: Hmm. That is
an interesting take. I never thought about it like that before. So Reagan, do
you also have a set of those Marxist books, like Hilda does?
REAGAN: No. And I would
never have those books in my house. They are anti-God.
HARLEY: They are?
REAGAN: Sure! Karl
Marx and almost all those other people who wrote her books are atheist. They
believe that religion keeps you from believing completely and totally in their
Marxist state.
HILDA: That's ridiculous.
They don't believe in religion because it causes people to ignore this world in
favor of a non-existent after life.
REAGAN: You got those
books from Great Great Great Uncle
Ed—who was a sore head who believed we can somehow change the
system. You would be a lot happier if you just accept Jesus into your life and
accept the system for what it is. You can't change it.
HARLEY: That's funny.
I told Hilda the same thing about changing the system.
HILDA: You two are just like
Frick and Frack. You two should be together.
HARLEY: You two are
really different. I can't believe you are so far apart in what you believe. I
guess not all chickens believe the same thing.
HILDA: You've got that right.
We have nothing in common. And why are you here today anyway?
REAGAN: You promised
you would pay me back some of the $30,000 dollars you borrowed.
HILDA: I've got some of it. (She
walks into her bedroom, opens and shuts some drawers and walks back out with a
hand full of $500 bills.) Here. You can go now.
REAGAN: Don't be so
angry. I just know some day you will change your mind and go to church with me.
HILDA: Don't hold your
breath.
REAGAN: Bye! (Reagan
leaves.)
HILDA: How do you feel
after last night?
HARLEY: Terrible. My
head hurts, My mouth is as dry as cotton. I feel lousy all over.
HILDA: That was your
first time trying R-25. I'm sure you won't feel so bad after the next time you
try it. The effects won't be so strong either.
HARLEY: That was weird
stuff. Also, you all drink. I didn't realize that.
HILDA: A lot of us are
not going to follow all those stupid rules that are designed to make us good
meat for someone else's benefit. They can fuck off if they think we are going
to follow their stupid rules.
HARLEY: I take it your
sister doesn't feel that way about rules?
HILDA: Of course not!
She follows all the rules. She is a complete idiot. Her compliance makes me
sick. Jean-Paul Sartre said; "I hate victims who respect their
executioners."[1][9] I like that
quote.
HARLEY: Wow. I think
I've read some of his stuff in school.
HILDA: Yes. he has never
been banned, as other Marxist rebel writers. That is, not all his works. Some
of his writings have been banned—the ones with Marxist quotes and references.
HARLEY: You seem well
read.
HILDA: Thanks.
HARLEY: Well, I've got
to go now. Next Friday we can go to my favorite club, Kiss-My-Gun. It's not all
that far from here.
HILDA: Great! I'll get
some temporary tattoos some time this week.
HARLEY: I'll get you
some metal rings to go up and down your arms. I have enough experience punching
holes in flesh that I can put those in myself. But we better start earlier than
Friday. I can get some for tomorrow night. And each night I can add some new
ones until you look somewhat like a metal woman. Since you don't like to follow
rules I can poke those wholes in you because they will close up easily after
we're done for the night. They will only last as few weeks since this will be
your first puncture wounds. Those wholes mend when the metal isn't left in
them.
HILDA: You know me. I
hate to follow rules anyway. What's a few puncture wounds? What should I wear?
HARLEY: It will be
casual. Not much different from what you wore last night.
I left Hilda's and
headed home. It will be a real interesting night trying to take a chicken to my
club, among my people. But I was able to fit into her world, so maybe she can
fit OK into mine.
Later that Friday we
were at Hilda's apartment getting ready to go to my club, Our Guns Are Fun. She
was wearing her usual black. The tattoos and the metal rings all give her a lot
of color she usually doesn’t have.
HILDA: These metal
rings are starting to hurt.
HARLEY: I usually
don't put that many on at one time. But we're almost done. You'll get used to
them pretty quick. I take it you already have your fake tattoos on.
HILDA: Yes.
HARLEY: You're looking
pretty good.
HILDA: Thanks.
HARLEY: Are we ready?
HILDA: I guess we
won't need to sneak in booze to this place.
HARLEY: No. There will
be as much liquor as you want.
We hopped in my car
and went across town to the club. A few miles down the road, in the middle of
the block was the large yellow plastic building. It was built with a modern
form of plastic that most of the newest buildings are made with. The building
had two large doors. Once inside there were TVs on every wall. It was hard to
tell what color the walls really were. Then there was the stage on the back
wall. Tonight they had the band; New Hands, to play cover songs. Then there was
the black plastic chairs placed everywhere.
Once we got in there,
I saw three of my friends, Ted, Ratchet and Edward. They were all dressed
similar to me, with various shades of tan pants and hipster beards (that is
hipster for that time period). And they all had their own unique types of metal
implements on their arms, ears and necks.
They were standing in
the bar area. I went over to the three. Ted and Ratchet had beers. Edward was
holding a scotch on the rocks. Then I went up to the bar to get a butterscotch
beer for me and a vodka rabbit chaser for Hilda.
HARLEY: Hey you guys!
TED: Hey! How's your
Trump Hoover running?
HARLEY: Great. I think
it is ready for the mid-level hover tracks. That reminds me. I almost forgot to
pay my road fees for that part of town.
RATCHET: Who's
the girl?
HARLEY: This is Hilda.
THEY ALL SAY TOGETHER:
Hi!
HILDA: Hi! And by the
way. Did you guys know that roads were free at one time?
TED: What?
HILDA: The government
ran them and they didn't charge everyone fees to use them.
TED: Then how were
they paid for?
HILDA: They took it
out of taxes.
HARLEY: Hilda is a
political freak. She likes to talk about political things, like history.
TED: Wow. That could
come in handy...I guess. I kind of hate politics. It's too boring.
HARLEY: How about the
Trumpville Tigers. You think they will win tomorrow?
TED: Sure. Say, I’m
thinking of getting a Plasmodium Hover Kicker 95. You think those are good
hover cars?
HARLEY: Sure. But not
until this year’s model comes out.
Just then Eva came up
to them. She was wearing red pants and a bright green shirt. She is blond, and
had here hair spiked with metal clamps. Her hair looked like a Mohawk. She was
holding a Bubble-fest and bourbon.
EVA: Hey Everyone!
ALL: Hey!
EVA: Who is your new
bird?
HARLEY: This is Hilda.
EVA: Good to meet you.
What do you do for a living?
HILDA: I work as a
librarian at the Wal*mart Library.[10]
EVA: I work in a
finance office, of Chet and Ormies. How do you like the band they have here
tonight? (The music of the band is playing in the background.)
HILDA: Fine.
EVA: They play a lot
of songs by Commercial Potential. That is about my favorite band.
HILDA: Really? I can’t
say I’ve heard them before.
EVA: Never heard
them?! We’re have you been the last year? In a cave? Anyway, I spend a lot of
time listening and following my favorite singers and bands. My boyfriend is in
a band. He plays an electronic trombone.
HILDA: I don’t really
like music that much…What I mean is I don’t really follow any bands or special
kinds of music.
EVA: Oh! I see. I’m
hoping to be a singer myself, someday.
HILDA: Like being on
'America Wins?' (A more modern version of 'American Idol.') If you win, you get
a big recording contract.
EVA: Yeah! I practice
my singing a lot. Some days I just get lazy. Sometimes I get as lazy as a
chicken.
HILDA: As lazy as a
what?
EVA: A chicken. You
know. Those lazy people we eat.
HILDA: You just assume
they are all lazy?
EVA: Well they are.
That’s why we use them for food. They not useful to our society other than
their food.
HILDA: Don’t they work
and hold jobs?
EVA: Yeah. The crappy
jobs that regular people don’t want. They only do them because no one else will
do them.
HILDA: But they do
those jobs and they are not always easy jobs.
EVA: That doesn’t
matter. They only work when they have too. They would do nothing if we let them
get away with that. Most of those people have no real talents. No real
abilities. My great great uncle said the government used to pay poor people
like them to sit around all day doing nothing. They just sat around doing
nothing all day long. And they lived to be real old.
HILDA: Well, do you
think they are just born lazy?
EVA: Well, generation
after generation of those people just sat around doing nothing for so long, it became
part of their culture…their personalities. After several generations of people
not having to doing anything for themselves they just started to turn out that
way. It was obvious these people couldn’t take care of themselves so now we put
them to good use. We eat their meat.
Just then Ratchet
heard them. His face showed an interest and he walked over to get in on the
conversation.
RATCHET: Those people
are dumb.
HILDA: How can you be
so sure?
RATCHET: None of them
go to college. They work at real stupid jobs.
HILDA: They don't live
long enough to benefit from college. And they probably take the only jobs they
can get.
RATCHET: If they were
smart they would get better jobs.
HILDA: So the only
thing they are good for is to be eaten?
RATCHET: Eating them
is the best thing for them. After all, they can't really do much with their
lives. If they lived as long as we do, it would just be a waist of their time
and ours.
HILDA: You think they
are better off dead?
RATCHET: Well yeah.
They don't even notice how short their lives are. They are so dumb they believe
everything our society tells them.
HILDA: How's that
different from the rest of society? I mean do you believe everything you hear
from our political leaders?
RATCHET: Well I'm not
saying I believe everything I'm told, but I can tell when I'm being scammed.
HILDA: So they are
being scammed?
RATCHET: Well if they
were smart they wouldn't let the rest of us just eat them.
HILDA: Have you ever
really met any of these people?
RATCHET: Sure. I work
with some of them.
EVA: So do I.
HILDA: Have you ever
gotten to know any of them? I mean like meet their families or go out for
drinks with them?
BOTH EVA AND RATCHET:
Are you crazy?
RATCHET: Why would I
hang out with an idiot chicken. That would be a complete waist of my time.
EVA: Yeah.
(Hilda walked over to
me and asked me to dance.)
HILDA: Let's dance.
HARLEY: Sure. Lets go. (We
both walked to the dance floor. A slow song was playing, so we got in close.)
HILDA: I want to
leave. Can we go now?
HARLEY: We just got
here. And you're doing a good job of fitting in.
HILDA: No. I'm not.
I've been defending the chicken class and they must be wondering why I would do
that. They seem hateful. If they knew who I was they would hate me. Can we go
back to my place?
HARLEY: OK. If that is
what you really want.
HILDA: It is.
(We walked out the
door and headed to my car. Then back to Hilda's place. We stopped to pick up a
bottle of vodka. Then we ended up in Hilda's Kitchen, sitting at the old
wood-like plastic table.)
HILDA: I guess I knew
your people were like that, but this is the first time I heard it all from them
in person. It's not just an editorial or a sound byte. It is the real thing, up
front and personal.
HARLEY: That is what
we all have heard our whole lives. I guess it takes a lot for a person to go
past all of it and see what the other people are really like. You can't really
blame people for saying things they have been taught to say.
HILDA: Maybe I can't
blame them for the way they were taught. But would it kill them to at least
think about those things they've been told. They may not realize it but they
are mean and cruel. They don't know anything about real chickens. Everything
they believe is a lie. How can they not see that?
HARLEY: I guess most
people never question those things.
HILDA: You aren't like
them. How did you see past all of that?
HARLEY: I was horny
and you looked real hot.
HILDA: I guess there
is something to be said of a person who follows their basic instincts.
.
It was a few days
after my date with Hilda that I got a real surprise. I was walking down the
street from my house on my way to my car when two men walked up from behind me.
They walked up to my side. The two men were wearing suits and ties, not much
different from the grey and dreary suits of the 20th and 21st centuries.
They both had thin black ties and grey shirts. They were both tall. One had a
slight beard the other was clean shaven. Both had very short hair. Suddenly
when there was one on each side, one pulled a gun out and aimed it at my gut.
The other man grabbed my arm. Then one of them flipped out his wallet.
OFFICER REEDNICK:
We’re police! Keep moving. (We all walked to an unmarked hoover car.)
Get in!
He pointed to the
door. I opened it and I got in. A few minutes later and about two miles down
the road I was being whisked to an office down a set of steps, in an old ornate
municipal building. They dragged me down some steps. Next they dragged me
into an office. There were three blue-plastic chairs, a large plastic desk and
we seemed to be in a sound proof room, painted all yellow inside.
OFFICER REEDNICK: I’m
Officer Reednick. (We all sit down.) Let’s talk about your girl-friend
Hilda. (He moved in close to me. The other man took my hand and slammed it
on the desk as hard as he could. I felt some serious pain.)
HARLEY: OW! What is
the deal here? So I went out a few times with a chicken? So what? (The two
cops pulled me up, one on each side, and walked me to the wall. Then one
grabbed my head and one arm. The other grabbed my other arm. My head was
slammed against the wall, with my face being slammed flat. They did this twice
until blood was streaming from my face. Then they took me back to the chair and
sat me down.)
OFFICER REEDNICK: We
take your relationship with her very seriously. You took her to a metal bar. We
don’t like it when people like you do things like that.
HARLEY: Are you
charging me with something?
OFFICER REEDNICK: This
is an office of the secret police. We don’t charge anyone with anything. We
just take action.
HARLEY: What laws have
I broken?
OFFICER REEDNICK:
None.
HARLEY: Then what am I
doing here?
OFFICER REEDNICK:
Every once in a while we have to straighten a few of you metal fuckers out. You
think you can do anything you want. So you date a chicken. You’re messing with
our meet supply you idiot!
HARLEY: I demand a
lawyer!
OFFICER REEDNICK: (He
looked at the other man.) He wants a lawyer, Hasbrow! He thinks he is in a
regular police station. (They both smile and start to chuckle. Hasbrow
punches me in the stomach while Officer Reednick smacks me across the face.)
I don’t know if you realize it, but if you murdered your wife, sister,
girl-friend, you would get a lawyer and a fair trial. That’s because no one
really cares if you kill a relative, except a few friends and relatives. Most
of our society really don’t care if you kill a close relative or friend. But
you are messing with our meat supply. THAT...AIN'T...GOOD! People in all walks
of life depend on our supply of meat. When chickens and metal people start
hanging out together bad things can happen. Metals start to feel sorry for
chickens. They try and help the chickens get out of their intended destiny. You
get what I’m saying?!
HARLEY: Waite a
minute. Chickens never escape. Metal people never help them escape.
OFFICER REEDNICK: And
that is because of people like us.
HARLEY: I'm beginning
to understand why Hilda likes those Marxist books so well.
OFFICER REEDNICK:
Those stupid books Hilda has….
HARLEY: But they are
about revolution. There hasn’t been a revolution in over 300 years.
OFFICER REEDNICK: And
that is because people like us work day and night to make sure such things
never happen. Someday Hilda will die or grow tired of those books she has. No
matter what happens to her, we will be waiting to make sure no chicken outside
of her family ever sees those books. No one will ever see them. And no one
thinks of rebelling against the system. We make sure of that. (Officer
Reednick smacks Harley again across the face and Hasbrow smacks him again, the
same way, almost simultaneous.) There is no privacy anymore. You
may think when you go in your home and close all the windows and draw all the
drapes that you are along...you're not. Not EVER!!! We know all about you and
that girl. We know everything you do. There is no part of your affair we don’t
know about. You need to think carefully about this.
HASBROW: We are
trained to inflict severe pain without leaving any visible traces. We can beat
you senseless and the next day there are no marks. You need to break this thing
with Hilda off and soon.
When I looked into Hasbrow's
eyes it looked like the dead sea. He resembled an attack animal that had no
feelings or remorse about anything he had done nor would ever do.
OFFICER REEDNICK: So
after we are done taking you will go back to your car. You will say nothing to
no one about our little talk.
HASBROW: I inflict
real pain. REAL PAIN! Remember that!
OFFICER REEDNICK: And
that is because people like us work day and night to make sure bad things never
happen. Someday Hilda will die or grow tired of those books she has. No matter
what happens to her, we will be waiting to make sure a chicken inside nor
outside of her family never sees those books. No one will ever see them. And no
one thinks of rebelling against the system. We make sure of that. (Officer
Reednick smacks Harley again across the face and Hasbrow smacks him again,
almost simultaneous.) We know all about you and that girl. We
know everything you do. There is no part of your affair we don’t know about.
You need to think carefully about this.
HASBROW: You need to
break this thing with Hilda off and soon.
I drove immediately
over to Hilda's house. I walked up and knocked on the door. Hilda answered.
HILDA: Come in. We are
drinking grand drivers.
HARLEY: OK.
I walked in. When I
got to the table, I noticed something odd. There was already a bottle of Vodka.
There was also some Fissy Foam. Fissy Foam is a main ingredient to a grand
driver.
HARLEY: You already
have a bottle of Vodka.
HILDA: So.
HARLEY: Usually you
have me get you some.
HILDA: I have other
sources than you.
(she said almost
defensively. I also noticed there was more than one glass on the table.)
HARLEY: Did you have
some friends over. I see more than one glass.
HILDA: Yes. I had a
little party earlier. You need a drink. (She fixed me a drink and then
handed it to me. I took several big gulps of the drink.)
HARLEY: You'll never
guess where I was a few minutes ago.
HILDA: Where were you?
HARLEY: The police
station. (She didn't seem as surprised as I thought she would.)
HILDA: Oh.
HARLEY: They were
interested in our relationship.
HILDA: Really?! What
did they say?
HARLEY: They said they
know everything. They said they don't allow relationships as ours.
HILDA: Did you believe
them? (I suddenly got very drunk and very sleepy.)
HARLEY: Why would I
not believe them? (And that is the last thing I remember at all.)
So a few minutes later
I wake up. I was drugged. I was out for I don't know how long. But my wallet was
missing. Many of my rings and metal parts were missing. I got up and looked
around. A lot of Hilda's things were gone. Not everything. But a lot of things
were gone. I looked by the door and her books were gone.
What had happened? On
the table I saw a note. It read:
Dear Harley,
I'm sorry to rob you like this, but it
was the only way I could get an ID card and some of the other things I will
need to establish a new identity. I have a friend who has the equipment to
alter ID cards. So with that fake ID, the arm rings you gave me and the fresh
illegal tattoos I just got from an underground artist I can leave and pass
myself off as a metal woman in anther state.
With all of this I can pass by my
execution date which is scheduled some time in my late 30s. I think I have what
it takes to set myself up as a real metal women, complete with a phony past.
You do realize the police still do that for people who want to rat out
organized criminals.
I wish I could take you with me. I
really enjoyed our time together. But that just won't work. You would be an accessoryto the
crime and they could punish you with death.
Anyway this was not really about
robbery. I left you your money. And if you see Reednick and Hasbrow again say
goodbye for me.
love Hilda.
PS- I changed my mind about your money. I'm going to need
all the cash I can get.
And that was it. That
was the last I ever heard from her. I didn't get mad. I was glad she got away.
I was going to miss her. But she deserved to live past 40. She was right about
the ID card. I could easily replace it. Although the government keeps coming up
with new ways to prevent IDs from being tampered with, criminals keep finding
new technology to tamper with them anyway.
That was years ago. I
have never heard from her again. I hope she got away. Sometimes I still dream
of making love to her.
The one thing she did
leave me was one of her Marxist books. I knew she liked me because she would
rather die than part with just one of those books. I found it next to her
letter. Strangely enough it was her book on Pol Pot.
So the only thing left
I have to remember her by is the book and the letter. And that was it.
The End
[7]
A common reference to the other main class of people in this
society and their common label…the 1 percenters.
[8]
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.
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/j/jeanpaul_sartre_2.html#7sCTKGkipgx4F4sH.99
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