Alexias
13-02-2005, 06:03
Day to day
By
Alexander Thompson
(I really can’t remember why I wrote this….It’s really more oddly skewed reminisance of stuff I remember than anything….There was a reason, but I forget it now, but now that it’s done, I thought I may aswell put it up and see what you think. Anyhow.)
“………….without this, I tell you guys. And if you can’t do that, well, your not very productive, and see, that, not very patriotic.” The math teacher cast a grave glance of the classroom. His suit, made of cheap brown textile, looked worn, and he did not look like the kind of thing that he would have chosen to wear, but for his job.
Mathematical equations were scrawled all over the board in white chalk.
Tabir observed the classroom lazily from his desk.
It was a low, windowless, rectangular room, with bright lights planted in the ceiling. The teacher’s desk was at the front, and a chalkboard covered the front wall. It went quite a ways back, and in it was packed sixty desks and sixty one students. Every class, someone ended up without one, and would have to be contented to lean on the wall, or stand somewhere in the room.
The class was composed mostly of sixteen and seventeen year olds, or young men and women around that age.
Most of the young men wore coulored bandanas or armbands with different insignias. Despite the government programs, gang loyalties were still very important parts of people’s lives, especially in the case of young men.
It was common knowledge on the Southside that, before his rise to power, the emperor had been powerfull in another way. He was once a very important and influential member of the P.O.I gang, which in it’s prime controlled almost the entire Southside. The violent crime crackdown from the previous government had eventually disbanded the great network, and now, no one would ever officially mention the emperor’s involvement in any crime whatsoever, with the exception of when he or his ministers would use it in as vague reference for policy.
On the walls were a number of posters and pictures, with patriotic dogma, slogans, and the like.
On one was a sketch of the emperor in military uniform, and text endorsing the emperialist revolution. In large, bold letters of black ink under the sketch of the emperor was written:
Move forward in solidarity
Tabir looked to his left. On that wall to, posters where spaced at carefully measured intervals.
Another poster was simply a picture of the emperor in front of a massive crowd, giving a speech. It was in color, with a red border. The emperor’s fist was raised in the air, and he was shouting.
Underneath the picture were the words
People first, greed after.
Emperor Alexander I
In the very back of the room, in the center of the back wall, hung a portrait of the emperor. In the portrait, he sat with a slight smile, looking out onto the students with a sort of odd fatherly type heir. Underneath the portrait, but still inside the frame was written, simply,
Long Live the Empire
The teacher looked at the clock.
“Oh, there’s just two minu-ok, class dismissed, don’t be late for the thing, eh?”
He began rummaging through his desk, looking for something.
Today was not a normal school day. Today was the monthly patriotic school assembly.
Tabir walked slowly through the halls, his books casually at his side. Wading through the sea of people was now almost second nature. The crowd moved along sluggishly all heading in the same direction, towards the gym. In the crowd, people chatted and argued, banging lockers and pushing each other.
At all the doors to the gym, senior students were handing out pamphlets, outlining benefits of the emperialist revolution, praising the emperial government, all things that everyone had heard before.
Several thousand students were crowded into the assembly room, and hundreds more lining the hallways outside for lack of room. Tabir was standing in near the back, but even there he was still in wall to wall people. He held his pamphlet in his right hand, which was hovering around his side.
The Principle walked onto the stage, and the chattered died away. The rowdy, rogue like and militant youth were often very unruly, and not likely to respond well to authority. The only people that most of the kids had respect for was people of influence and accomplishment in there communities, such as gang leaders. But, the principal had been a career soldier, who joined the original emperialist movement, fighting alongside the emperialists who had brought the emperor to power. He had been wounded in the fighting, and could not walk very fast, but he was still a man who commanded respect, standing at a towering seven feet, with steel grey hair. Although being an old man, he was still large, and you could still see in him the young soldier that he once was.
Behind him in the center of the stage, underneath the Alexian flag, was a large imposing portrait of the emperor, looking out over the crowd, as though providing over the event.
The principal, holding a microphone, began
“Greetings, students. As you know, today is the monthly patriotic assembly. Before we begin, we wish to remind you of the marriage counseling program offered so generously by our great leader, it really is a resource for a lot of you young people starting your lives.
Now, to speak you, police Colonel Henry Azeem.”
With that, the principal handed the microphone to a uniformed man who had just walked off the stage. He was a young man, with black hair in a mushroom cut.
“Thank you, mister Strumond.” He said as he accepted the mike.
The ceremony that followed was like all the others. The praise of the emperor and his crew, the praise of all that they did, the praise of the perfect society, the denouncement of anyone and anything that opposed the emperor and the government, and the teachings of how to complete the revolution. Just the same thing as every other month. And yet, the young crowd ate it up voraciously. The emperor’s exaggerated heroic exploits, how much better everything was, the endless propagation, it made his head hurt, but they loved it. These slum children ate it up. The emperor was like there father, there savior, the great leader of strength and virtue to whom you could give all your trust, to whom you could throw every thing that mattered to you and trust him to take care of, the one person who you could follow blindly, must follow blindly, never questioning, because he was always right. There was no need to question.
He was omnipotent.
A young man named Eaglechild was called onto the stage. He was a member of the Green Protectors, the government run youth militia which haunted the urban centers of the empire, drumming up support and keeping a lid on those that would dare act in a manner perceived as “neglecting there responsibility to the people”, terrorizing people who needed to “seriously consider reforming there ideologies”. They were mostly made up of young men, men would normally have put there loyalty into gangs, but now, with the new person in whom to place there trust, even the most revered gang leader could hardly compare to the great, unwavering deity that was the emperor.
Eaglechild was known in the area as a great entertaining. His music, which was mostly about life in the slums (which was what most of popular music in Alexia was about most of the time) and how the emperor would help the masses rise up, out of poverty, and about how the great revolution had done so much for the people, had earned him the endorsement of the local police department and Green Protector leadership.
As the cheering died down, he took the microphone, and nodded to the turntableist, who started a beat, and he began.
“Hey yo, mes comrades, check cette jam/
Here something ma people gotta un-der-stand/
Tous c’est motherfuckers, gotta get, with tha plan/
Incoerperate this here like doctrine of tha Qu’ran/”
The song went on to praise all that the emperor had done for his people, and so on.
The refrain went:
(Damn this fucking American keyboard! I hate it! Damn this American typing program, agghh!)
Eaglechild: Qui a construits tous les rue?
Crowd:Emperor Thompson!
Eaglechild:Qui nous a donner l’electricite?
Crowd:Emperor Thompson!
Eaglechild:Et la securite?
Crowd:Emperor Thompson!
Eaglechild: C’east ca, et mort a tous ses motherfucker qui,dirait autrement!
And so one it went.
Later, Tabir wadded through the masses of people, slowly advancing on the door. It was not uncommon for someone to be seriously hurt while trying to get out of the building. Just last week, someone’s arm had been shattered when he tripped and fell as he was trying to go home.
Tabir emerged from the school building, coming out onto the grey streets. The sprawling concrete apartment complexes stretched in every direction, broken only by small shops or parks at occasional intervals. The streets of Alex City.
This had been where he grew up. He lived in a concrete universe. This was what he remembered all his life, the endless tenements teaming with people just like him. Poor, unimportant, powerless.
But, he thought, not quite powerless. In the deep urban maze, that was where the greatest political actions in the world went on. Wars for control of markets, great, legendary gang leaders, the most articulate politicians, displays of power, empowered young footsoldiers of countless causes, all here in this sprawling slum. And no one would ever have guessed that the greatest politicians know to man operated here, with no radio or television adds no posters, no flags. The gang turfs were the countries, the gangleaders the presidents and kings, the gang insignias spray painted onto the walls were the flags, that were worn and displayed so proudly by thousands. All here, in this city. Alex City. The nations great capital. Birthplace of hypocrisy.
It was something that amazed Tabir, and countless others like him. And today, he was to start off his career.
He thought about his poor mother, at home with all his little siblings. Poor girl, he thought. She barely got to leave there tiny apartment, with all the work she did. And she must be lonely, he thought. With me always out, and father…
Tabir’s father had gone to prison after trying to rob a video rental store at knifepoint. The judge had taken pity on him, and had gave a very lenient sentence, but he was forced to hold down a job for a year to fulfill his parole. He had been sent to work on the Royal Rail lines out in the rural areas between the cities.
He had been lucky. Many people could not get jobs nowadays.
He continued on his route.
He walked to a small alleyway between two shops. Near the front of it, a group of four young men had gathered. They all wore the same bandana as him. These guys were all established, experienced. Tabir felt rather embarrassed and overwhelmed being to only rookie among them.
“Hey yo Tabir! What took you so long, man? We been waiting for you. How you doing?” That was Abdul, the one in charge of this particular operation. He was a rising star in the Messenger gang, and Tabir could see a bright future for him. If he lived long enough, that is.
“Ae’aight, you got it down, guys?” said Abdul after explaining the plan.
A murmur of conformation went through the small group.
“Perfect!” he said. He seemed pleased with the whole arrangement. This was going to further his rep, his career, his power.
As for Tabir, if made him terribly nervous. But he was lucky to have this chance. If he was going to get anywhere in life, he had to roll with the right people, do what he needed to do. It had to be done.
“Be carefull, guys.” Said Abdul, as the group was about to split up. “I don’t want any of my brothers hurt, eh?”
The group nodded.
“Hey yo Tabir.” Said Abdul.
“Yeah?” he said.
Abdul pulled out a nine from his pocket, clicked on the safety, and tossed it too Tabir, who caught it in his hands. Tabir was amazed what the weapon felt like. The small amount of metal, that weighed almost nothing compared to a person, could do so much. He quickly put it into his waistband.
“Desi muslims, man.” Said Abdul, hitting his fist against his chest.
Tabir nodded. “Desi muslims.”
Abdul raised his hand in the air. “Peace, my brother.” And with that, began too walk away.
Ross sat in the small, dim restaurant, at his usual table. Near the door, a group of factory workers watched the news on a small coulour television that was suspended from the roof, and at the counter, the owner was leaning casually on his elbow, as his workers in the kitchen sat around waiting to fill the next order.
Ross ate slowly, comtemplating the current situation. Local business was not doing to well lately. A lot of it was because of the widespread unemployment. But a lot of it was the violent gangwar between the Desi Messenger’s gang, and the Persian South Guard Gang. A good number of young men had died recently, and both communities were suffering because of it.
Ross sipped his tea and began to read the local newspaper. So many killings….it disgusted him. Why couldn’t people just conduct business normaly? It was ridiculous.
Tabir walked quickly along the street, glancing at his friends watch. They had to do this quickly, if they were to avoid getting caught up with the locals, and they had to catch there bus, otherwise they’d have to walk, and they’d never get away. His heart was pumping a mile a minute. He breathed deeply. This had to be done.
Ross heard the door burst open. It was a young desi man. “What the hell was he doing here?” Thought Ross. “Oh, fuck no!” He moved for his pistol.
Tabir threw the door to the small shop open with a bang, his pistol already clutched tightly in his left hand. A quick glance around revealed his target. Another young man, much like himself, was moving for his piece. Before any of the others could get through, Tabir raised his pistol , already cocked, and fired four times. The young man lay in a pool of his own blood on the four. Frantic yelling and panic erupted in the shop. He turned and ran.
Tabir had killed the man on his own, and without hesitation. This would be great for his rep. But Tabir never thought of it that way. Too him, it would always be a murder. Always a murder……..
On the bus, his friends congratulated him, slapping him on the back.
“Great work, Tabir!” said Joseph.
“Man, you smoked that mothafucker good clean like it no thing! You a real gunman!” said Assif.
And other such things from his friends.
Tabir felt no better. But if he was to get anywhere in life, he had to go the right way. Power is a rare commodity, and wealth is in high demand. One must make the proper friends, and do the proper things to get them. There are only so many ways.
(Read the whole thing or don't post.)
By
Alexander Thompson
(I really can’t remember why I wrote this….It’s really more oddly skewed reminisance of stuff I remember than anything….There was a reason, but I forget it now, but now that it’s done, I thought I may aswell put it up and see what you think. Anyhow.)
“………….without this, I tell you guys. And if you can’t do that, well, your not very productive, and see, that, not very patriotic.” The math teacher cast a grave glance of the classroom. His suit, made of cheap brown textile, looked worn, and he did not look like the kind of thing that he would have chosen to wear, but for his job.
Mathematical equations were scrawled all over the board in white chalk.
Tabir observed the classroom lazily from his desk.
It was a low, windowless, rectangular room, with bright lights planted in the ceiling. The teacher’s desk was at the front, and a chalkboard covered the front wall. It went quite a ways back, and in it was packed sixty desks and sixty one students. Every class, someone ended up without one, and would have to be contented to lean on the wall, or stand somewhere in the room.
The class was composed mostly of sixteen and seventeen year olds, or young men and women around that age.
Most of the young men wore coulored bandanas or armbands with different insignias. Despite the government programs, gang loyalties were still very important parts of people’s lives, especially in the case of young men.
It was common knowledge on the Southside that, before his rise to power, the emperor had been powerfull in another way. He was once a very important and influential member of the P.O.I gang, which in it’s prime controlled almost the entire Southside. The violent crime crackdown from the previous government had eventually disbanded the great network, and now, no one would ever officially mention the emperor’s involvement in any crime whatsoever, with the exception of when he or his ministers would use it in as vague reference for policy.
On the walls were a number of posters and pictures, with patriotic dogma, slogans, and the like.
On one was a sketch of the emperor in military uniform, and text endorsing the emperialist revolution. In large, bold letters of black ink under the sketch of the emperor was written:
Move forward in solidarity
Tabir looked to his left. On that wall to, posters where spaced at carefully measured intervals.
Another poster was simply a picture of the emperor in front of a massive crowd, giving a speech. It was in color, with a red border. The emperor’s fist was raised in the air, and he was shouting.
Underneath the picture were the words
People first, greed after.
Emperor Alexander I
In the very back of the room, in the center of the back wall, hung a portrait of the emperor. In the portrait, he sat with a slight smile, looking out onto the students with a sort of odd fatherly type heir. Underneath the portrait, but still inside the frame was written, simply,
Long Live the Empire
The teacher looked at the clock.
“Oh, there’s just two minu-ok, class dismissed, don’t be late for the thing, eh?”
He began rummaging through his desk, looking for something.
Today was not a normal school day. Today was the monthly patriotic school assembly.
Tabir walked slowly through the halls, his books casually at his side. Wading through the sea of people was now almost second nature. The crowd moved along sluggishly all heading in the same direction, towards the gym. In the crowd, people chatted and argued, banging lockers and pushing each other.
At all the doors to the gym, senior students were handing out pamphlets, outlining benefits of the emperialist revolution, praising the emperial government, all things that everyone had heard before.
Several thousand students were crowded into the assembly room, and hundreds more lining the hallways outside for lack of room. Tabir was standing in near the back, but even there he was still in wall to wall people. He held his pamphlet in his right hand, which was hovering around his side.
The Principle walked onto the stage, and the chattered died away. The rowdy, rogue like and militant youth were often very unruly, and not likely to respond well to authority. The only people that most of the kids had respect for was people of influence and accomplishment in there communities, such as gang leaders. But, the principal had been a career soldier, who joined the original emperialist movement, fighting alongside the emperialists who had brought the emperor to power. He had been wounded in the fighting, and could not walk very fast, but he was still a man who commanded respect, standing at a towering seven feet, with steel grey hair. Although being an old man, he was still large, and you could still see in him the young soldier that he once was.
Behind him in the center of the stage, underneath the Alexian flag, was a large imposing portrait of the emperor, looking out over the crowd, as though providing over the event.
The principal, holding a microphone, began
“Greetings, students. As you know, today is the monthly patriotic assembly. Before we begin, we wish to remind you of the marriage counseling program offered so generously by our great leader, it really is a resource for a lot of you young people starting your lives.
Now, to speak you, police Colonel Henry Azeem.”
With that, the principal handed the microphone to a uniformed man who had just walked off the stage. He was a young man, with black hair in a mushroom cut.
“Thank you, mister Strumond.” He said as he accepted the mike.
The ceremony that followed was like all the others. The praise of the emperor and his crew, the praise of all that they did, the praise of the perfect society, the denouncement of anyone and anything that opposed the emperor and the government, and the teachings of how to complete the revolution. Just the same thing as every other month. And yet, the young crowd ate it up voraciously. The emperor’s exaggerated heroic exploits, how much better everything was, the endless propagation, it made his head hurt, but they loved it. These slum children ate it up. The emperor was like there father, there savior, the great leader of strength and virtue to whom you could give all your trust, to whom you could throw every thing that mattered to you and trust him to take care of, the one person who you could follow blindly, must follow blindly, never questioning, because he was always right. There was no need to question.
He was omnipotent.
A young man named Eaglechild was called onto the stage. He was a member of the Green Protectors, the government run youth militia which haunted the urban centers of the empire, drumming up support and keeping a lid on those that would dare act in a manner perceived as “neglecting there responsibility to the people”, terrorizing people who needed to “seriously consider reforming there ideologies”. They were mostly made up of young men, men would normally have put there loyalty into gangs, but now, with the new person in whom to place there trust, even the most revered gang leader could hardly compare to the great, unwavering deity that was the emperor.
Eaglechild was known in the area as a great entertaining. His music, which was mostly about life in the slums (which was what most of popular music in Alexia was about most of the time) and how the emperor would help the masses rise up, out of poverty, and about how the great revolution had done so much for the people, had earned him the endorsement of the local police department and Green Protector leadership.
As the cheering died down, he took the microphone, and nodded to the turntableist, who started a beat, and he began.
“Hey yo, mes comrades, check cette jam/
Here something ma people gotta un-der-stand/
Tous c’est motherfuckers, gotta get, with tha plan/
Incoerperate this here like doctrine of tha Qu’ran/”
The song went on to praise all that the emperor had done for his people, and so on.
The refrain went:
(Damn this fucking American keyboard! I hate it! Damn this American typing program, agghh!)
Eaglechild: Qui a construits tous les rue?
Crowd:Emperor Thompson!
Eaglechild:Qui nous a donner l’electricite?
Crowd:Emperor Thompson!
Eaglechild:Et la securite?
Crowd:Emperor Thompson!
Eaglechild: C’east ca, et mort a tous ses motherfucker qui,dirait autrement!
And so one it went.
Later, Tabir wadded through the masses of people, slowly advancing on the door. It was not uncommon for someone to be seriously hurt while trying to get out of the building. Just last week, someone’s arm had been shattered when he tripped and fell as he was trying to go home.
Tabir emerged from the school building, coming out onto the grey streets. The sprawling concrete apartment complexes stretched in every direction, broken only by small shops or parks at occasional intervals. The streets of Alex City.
This had been where he grew up. He lived in a concrete universe. This was what he remembered all his life, the endless tenements teaming with people just like him. Poor, unimportant, powerless.
But, he thought, not quite powerless. In the deep urban maze, that was where the greatest political actions in the world went on. Wars for control of markets, great, legendary gang leaders, the most articulate politicians, displays of power, empowered young footsoldiers of countless causes, all here in this sprawling slum. And no one would ever have guessed that the greatest politicians know to man operated here, with no radio or television adds no posters, no flags. The gang turfs were the countries, the gangleaders the presidents and kings, the gang insignias spray painted onto the walls were the flags, that were worn and displayed so proudly by thousands. All here, in this city. Alex City. The nations great capital. Birthplace of hypocrisy.
It was something that amazed Tabir, and countless others like him. And today, he was to start off his career.
He thought about his poor mother, at home with all his little siblings. Poor girl, he thought. She barely got to leave there tiny apartment, with all the work she did. And she must be lonely, he thought. With me always out, and father…
Tabir’s father had gone to prison after trying to rob a video rental store at knifepoint. The judge had taken pity on him, and had gave a very lenient sentence, but he was forced to hold down a job for a year to fulfill his parole. He had been sent to work on the Royal Rail lines out in the rural areas between the cities.
He had been lucky. Many people could not get jobs nowadays.
He continued on his route.
He walked to a small alleyway between two shops. Near the front of it, a group of four young men had gathered. They all wore the same bandana as him. These guys were all established, experienced. Tabir felt rather embarrassed and overwhelmed being to only rookie among them.
“Hey yo Tabir! What took you so long, man? We been waiting for you. How you doing?” That was Abdul, the one in charge of this particular operation. He was a rising star in the Messenger gang, and Tabir could see a bright future for him. If he lived long enough, that is.
“Ae’aight, you got it down, guys?” said Abdul after explaining the plan.
A murmur of conformation went through the small group.
“Perfect!” he said. He seemed pleased with the whole arrangement. This was going to further his rep, his career, his power.
As for Tabir, if made him terribly nervous. But he was lucky to have this chance. If he was going to get anywhere in life, he had to roll with the right people, do what he needed to do. It had to be done.
“Be carefull, guys.” Said Abdul, as the group was about to split up. “I don’t want any of my brothers hurt, eh?”
The group nodded.
“Hey yo Tabir.” Said Abdul.
“Yeah?” he said.
Abdul pulled out a nine from his pocket, clicked on the safety, and tossed it too Tabir, who caught it in his hands. Tabir was amazed what the weapon felt like. The small amount of metal, that weighed almost nothing compared to a person, could do so much. He quickly put it into his waistband.
“Desi muslims, man.” Said Abdul, hitting his fist against his chest.
Tabir nodded. “Desi muslims.”
Abdul raised his hand in the air. “Peace, my brother.” And with that, began too walk away.
Ross sat in the small, dim restaurant, at his usual table. Near the door, a group of factory workers watched the news on a small coulour television that was suspended from the roof, and at the counter, the owner was leaning casually on his elbow, as his workers in the kitchen sat around waiting to fill the next order.
Ross ate slowly, comtemplating the current situation. Local business was not doing to well lately. A lot of it was because of the widespread unemployment. But a lot of it was the violent gangwar between the Desi Messenger’s gang, and the Persian South Guard Gang. A good number of young men had died recently, and both communities were suffering because of it.
Ross sipped his tea and began to read the local newspaper. So many killings….it disgusted him. Why couldn’t people just conduct business normaly? It was ridiculous.
Tabir walked quickly along the street, glancing at his friends watch. They had to do this quickly, if they were to avoid getting caught up with the locals, and they had to catch there bus, otherwise they’d have to walk, and they’d never get away. His heart was pumping a mile a minute. He breathed deeply. This had to be done.
Ross heard the door burst open. It was a young desi man. “What the hell was he doing here?” Thought Ross. “Oh, fuck no!” He moved for his pistol.
Tabir threw the door to the small shop open with a bang, his pistol already clutched tightly in his left hand. A quick glance around revealed his target. Another young man, much like himself, was moving for his piece. Before any of the others could get through, Tabir raised his pistol , already cocked, and fired four times. The young man lay in a pool of his own blood on the four. Frantic yelling and panic erupted in the shop. He turned and ran.
Tabir had killed the man on his own, and without hesitation. This would be great for his rep. But Tabir never thought of it that way. Too him, it would always be a murder. Always a murder……..
On the bus, his friends congratulated him, slapping him on the back.
“Great work, Tabir!” said Joseph.
“Man, you smoked that mothafucker good clean like it no thing! You a real gunman!” said Assif.
And other such things from his friends.
Tabir felt no better. But if he was to get anywhere in life, he had to go the right way. Power is a rare commodity, and wealth is in high demand. One must make the proper friends, and do the proper things to get them. There are only so many ways.
(Read the whole thing or don't post.)