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Body Rebellion (standard:humor, 868 words)
Author: heithamAdded: Jul 14 2006Views/Reads: 1871/0Story 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.' 


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