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|Body Rebellion (standard:humor, 868 words)|
|Author: heitham||Added: Jul 14 2006||Views/Reads: 1831/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A body rebels.|
Body Rebellion The accountant had finally received an important reward; in the 50th year of the World Accountant of the Year awards he had received “Glbl Accunt f th Yr. wd.” - this prize was given to him for his immaculate management of UKplc, which had enabled the company to list its shares at the staggering price of $1, 000, 000, 000, 000 .... well there is too little time left for all of us to list the 0's. Let's just say he had done well. Afriqueplc went bust, and somewhat ironically was purchased in an aggressive bid by its former colonial ruler. That night he could truly celebrate! And so he did, after a 2 block journey Smithson had timed in and began his 10 hour leisure slot. He was unaware that because of a 0 amongst the 1's, his clock was malfunctioning by 0.1 of a second - for every hour he lost he became a more honed worker. As a consequence his chips were frequently updated, a process inexplicably know as vinegaring. Employers were trying this on an increasing level: every hour that the employees lost through malfunction meant an unpaid hour of work for them! Who was the ultimate boss who was 0ing it in ? Nevermind, there's only ever so many words. Chris Smithson called his home ‘the mansion' and was comfortable as the king of his own castle. Like so many people in contemporary western society he did not understand those who did not share his definite opinions. Shame on him, eh? He had told his daughter, oh yes. And then left as she lapsed into tears. Silly bitch. To him life was like war; nevermind the tainted spectacles he wore to view things. At home Chris could involve himself in his favourite role play, as Jesus Christ. It was a particularly unpleasant evening and often meant that he was off work; usually he made the acceptable excuse of alcohol abuse. His spectacle chip meant that people could never view him in a negative way - nevermind that he was balding, impotent, aggressive and nasty. He had the premium technology and noone knew how he did it; to them he seemed like a goliath of a handsome man, incredible despite his 39 years of age. All kowtowed to Smithson. Except bacteria! Game over. He glanced across at his newspaper and tutted as he read the headline: Top Footy Drug Cheat. That reminded him - he ought to take his pills. Having washed his medication down with a glass of red wine he returned his attentions to the game again; this time he would save the planet and kill all of the bad guys. Kill, kill, kill. Graphics of violence and titillation passed in front of his insensitive mind and his hands twitched again and again, the thumb on his right hand began to ache as he fired more bullets. Destroy them. Destroy. The fantasy on the screen began to affect him and fully immerse him in the game; it was, for a few small moments, reality. He came as a saviour, perilously close to martyrdom. His lines ran through his head. Must remember the parables. Stray shot hits the saviour. Must move on. Must keep firing. Game over. Press Y for new game. Not this time. He had to punish himself: he scratched his remaining gonad under his thick sackcloth pants, preparing himself for the reality. In his laser room he scorched his back repeatedly until he fainted, still chained in cross position. Why he did this when his hubris got to big he did not know but masochism had always been a desirable trait of Ukplc. Plus a slightly bigger boss secretly filmed it for the kicks of the boardroom. It was a lucrative business - everybody wanted some kind of Schadenfreude, the kinkier the better. It kept away the pain. As he sat in the park later a bacteria from a pesky verdant leaf, ripped by a vandal found its way to one of the wounds. Inadvertently, use your imagination for fuck's sake, he got sick. Chris Smithson's stomach began to hurt. Chris Smithson's heart began to beat faster. Chris Smithson's skin began to tingle. Chris Smithson realised that he was dying. Inexplicably he felt the need to itch his toe; having removed his comfortable shoes and cartoon socks he scratched the blackened brittle stump so hard that it snapped off - crumbling onto the carpet! Ooh! He tried to cry but had been rendered incapable by years of hardheartedness; instead he stared at his leg, feeling something racing through it - up and down from the pain in his stomach. He tried to stand on the itching leg but it snapped under his weight and he fell to the floor. A flashing caught his eye from the screen. Game over. Press Y for new game. He opted to press Y. But nothing happened. Inside he cursed, remembering every fascistic, selfish, careless, thoughtless moment of his life. Then his body crumbled, the only thing that remained intact was his heart of bone. Bye bye Chris. Another inch to fill the tabloids. Rotten to the core! Neighbours complain of ‘fucking niff.' Tweet
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