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The Hogs of Entropy 0081
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| | ...Hogs of Entropy Text Files Present... | |
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| | "The Cherished Illusion" | |
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| | By: Dead Cheese | |
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The sun rises. A handful of birds sing their morning songs. Perhaps they
are sparrows, maybe cardinals. Jim doesn't know. They're all the same to
him, though they fill his head with the melodious resonance of nature's
musical talent.
As he strolls toward the paper stand that waits conveniently down the
street, he passes by neighbors and acquaintances; each receiving a cheerful
greeting. He notices his belt is rather tight and he loosens it a notch.
"Hmm. . . Perhaps I've gained some weight," he thinks. "I'll have to
start jogging again."
"Hello, Jim!"
"Well, hello Theodore! How goes it?" Jim replies cheerfully.
"Hell, Jim! Things just couldn't be better! The Misses is goin' to have
another child, you know. I hope it's a boy this time, Jim. It's something
wonderful to come home to my two beautiful daughters, but I want a boy, Jim.
A man can't have a family without a young spirit runnin' around playin' with
the dog an' gettin' into all kinds o' young mischief."
"I'd have to agree with you, Theodore. Playing games with my boy is one
of the pleasures of life. I'll just take my mail and the news here and I'll
be out of your way now, Theodore. Good day."
"Well alright now, Jim! You take care of that boy of yours an' tell the
wife I said hello!"
As Jim turns and walks back toward his home, he thinks about Theodore. . .
"Such a nice man. Always so cheerful. I've been coming to him for years
now. Every day. I wonder why I hadn't heard of his wife's pregnancy
sooner."
He shifts the newspaper and the envelopes from his left hand to his right
and tucks them under his arm so as to relieve his thumb and fingers from the
strain of holding such a weight.
"I hope she has a boy. Michael's such a good son. I'm lucky to have him.
He's getting older now. Could be in the Taming even."
When he reaches the door of his house, he shifts the papers to his left
hand; again holding them hanging down between his thumb and fingers. He then
grasps the rounded knob on his side of the beige colored wood with his right
hand and turns it until he hears a click and feels the knob give a slight
jump in his hand. He simultaneously pulls on the knob and rotates clockwise
with his right foot swinging back to stand side-by-side with his left, facing
the now open solid plank of painted wood. He then steps through the doorway
and closes the door behind him.
It is a modest home. A well-kept home. A home to be proud of. "Maggie!
Are you up?" he shouts as he walks toward the kitchen.
"Yes, Jim! I'm in the kitchen!" she shouts even as the clump-clump of
Jim's boots hitting the smooth, white tile of the kitchen floor is heard.
The kitchen is a bright room with white walls surrounding an oak table in
the center. These walls have seen the life and times of this family. Every
morning. Every day. Every night.
At the table sits a young man with about two decades of life in his face.
His sandy blond hair strays into his eyes occasionally, and, with a motion
that he has performed too often for him to notice anymore, he pushes the
rogue hairs back into place. His emerald green eyes are dull from the
monotony of eating a breakfast that he eats all too often and is bored with,
yet an undeniable sparkle of intelligence burns through those shrouded orbs
and speaks of dreams and expectations that will surely be fulfilled.
A woman of unearthly grace turns from the now closed pantry and moves
toward the table. As she takes her seat, her eyes meet those of her
husband's and a flash of fire flames to life in her crystal blue eyes. She
then lowers her eyes to the table, seats herself, and the fire is dimmed for
now.
"Good morning, family!" Jim exclaims as he seats himself.
"Good morning, Jim," answers Maggie. "What've you got in the mail?"
"Well, I haven't looked yet, dear," he says as he hands the envelopes to
his wife. "Here you are."
"Thank you, Jim."
Jim unfolds the newspaper, looks at the front page, and snorts. "Taming
Takes The Town" he reads aloud. "I'm sick of this paper always making biased
reports of the Taming. Always babbling on and on about how 'outdated' it is
and that it's a throwback to ancient times. What a lot of rubbish."
"Seems rather pointless to me, Pa. I don't see what good it does us, even
though it's -supposed- to teach us humility or some junk like that," says the
young man without taking his eyes off his nearly finished breakfast.
"Look, Jim!" Maggie interjects quickly. "A letter from Steven!"
"I'll tell you what good it is," Jim says heatedly, ignoring the letter
that has been thrust into his face. "First off, it's tradition. This world
has gone through some mighty changes and I'm not about to see yet another
piece of our culture thrown aside like so much garbage. Second, it brings
in. . ."
". . .Twenty percent of this town's yearly revenue," Michael interrupts in
bored tones.
"That's right. And our town needs that money to pay for things like your
school!" exclaims Jim.
"Honey, maybe if we brought him with us this time he'd understand," Maggie
says patiently.
"Well, he's old enough. . . Alright. We'll go today. It only lasts three
days."
* * *
"Look, Maggie. Those seats are open again. For the past six Tamings,
it's been the same seats. We'll sit there."
"Sounds good, Jim," Maggie answers as Jim walks toward the seats.
They aren't the best seats, but they're above an entrance for those for
those who might enter the stadium floor. This affords an onlooker with not
only an unobstructed view, but perhaps a close look at those who would
participate in the Taming.
As Jim, Maggie, and Michael take their respective seats, a great, fat man
waddles slowly out of the entrance on the opposite side of the stadium from
the chosen seats. His clothes are sharp and tell of wealth. They are
tailored to fool the eye into believing the wearer's girth is something less
than what it is. When the fat man reaches the center of the stadium, he
bellows a great call.
"Citizens, Visitors, children. . . Watchers On! The Taming is our
culture. It guides the means and ways of thought and teaching that defines
us as us. . ."
The lips of every man and woman move in unison with those of the fat man.
". . . The Taming is everlasting. It defies the whips and lashing throes
of time eternal. . ."
The silent mouths gain voices built only to a whisper, yet the whispers of
many are thunderous.
". . . The Taming is immortal life. It begins with the past and ends in
the future. . ."
The voices are no longer whispers. The terrific shouting of thousands
makes the very Earth vibrate with their song and threatens to crumble the
foundation of the stadium to the dust of its ruinous past.
"THE-TAMING-IS-BLACK-DEATH!"
The great, thunderous roar of the masses soars into the heavens. This
immense call of raw emotion seems not to come from mere humans, but surely
must be the firey screams of gods and demons scorned.
The fat man raises a hand above his head. All is silent. The thunder
rolls away, yet is not gone. The red faces of the now standing people speak
of fury behind walls that must surely crumble under their burdenous strain.
Were these people uniformed and screaming for war, nations would bow before
them.
"Michael Gaul."
The name is said. All but three are seated now.
"Pa?" The young one is confused.
"I would not have thought it could happen to us," says Jim.
"Pa!" He is angry.
"It is time, my son."
"PA!" Betrayed.
Two large men wearing ornamental uniforms appear beside Michael and Jim.
"We all must do our part," says the first.
"We cannot stop what must be done," says the second.
"We must go," says Jim.
The two men escort Jim and Michael to a stairway that runs down to the
stadium floor. They walk to the center where the fat man waits with a fixed,
placid expression on his face. Michael stands facing the fat man. Jim is
facing the space between them. One of the large men draws his fine steel
sabre and drives it into the ground at Jim's feet. The two men walk away.
The fat man draws a small golden dagger from his pocket. Pricking Michael
in the left shoulder with the sharp point of the dagger, he intones, "This is
for the sins of the past."
He pricks Michael in the right shoulder and says, "This is for the sins of
the present."
The fat man places the tip of the dagger against Michael's forehead and
chants, "This is for the sins that must never come to pass."
He presses the dagger into Michael's skin. A trickle of blood runs down
from the wound and along the side of Michael's nose only to die at his lips.
The fat man turns from Michael and addresses the crowd, "This is the end
of the beginning! What is now forever shall be!"
He then turns and faces Jim.
"You must."
"I shall."
Jim reaches down and extracts the sabre from the earthen floor. Holding
it with his right hand, he raises the sabre above his head. As his arm
descends, the sun flashes on the sharp edge of the sabre and in the rounded
form of a single tear rolling down the cheek of a woman who knows.
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Copyright (c) 1995 HoE Publications and Dead Cheese. #81 -> 06/16/95
All rights Reserved.
