Treznor
25-11-2003, 13:01
"...received gracious words of congratulations and thanks from the Dominion of the Bruce for this monumental event. Here in Devonton, the Emperor suspended business for the day in honour of the event.
"One billion candles were lit along the city walks to commemorate each citizen of our Empire. Thanks to the all-pervasive security barcoding, each candle holder has a name inscribed on it. The Emperor has pledged that each citizen so honoured will receive their candle as a reminder of this great day.
"Imperial Guardsman walk the streets keeping an eye out for revelers who might get a little too rowdy, and national forces are on high alert against foreign aggression.
"In other news, the stock market rose twelve points in heavy trading..."
Gunnery Sergeant Alan Scofield (retired) turns off the television and sits back in his chair with a heavy sigh. His tiny apartment is dark without the huge screen providing illumination, and for a moment it seems eerily quiet. Unfortunately, the silence is quickly punctuated by the screams of small children next door.
One billion citizens. One billion little brats like those snot-nosed girls next door. One billion haughty bitches like that lesbian upstairs who doesn't care if I can hear when she's practicing her perversion with her girlfriend. One billion tired old farts like me who gave the best years of their lives to the empire, only to be left with a string of medals, a fat pension and nothing to do.
Alan looks around to the familiar confines of his apartment, a place he can't call home even after three years. Along the north wall rests his memoirs from the Service. His medals, his patches, endless pictures and his old parade dress uniform. He still fits the uniform, even after thirty years.
Still fit enough to run the pants off half the young jackboots they're recruiting for the service. Now, after all this time, the Emperor decides to swell the ranks and build a military to be proud of. Not the tiny little token force I served in. Why now, of all times, when I'm no good to anyone? Not even myself.
He stands, uncomfortably aware of the aching joints and popping tendons that betray his advanced age. He limps to the tiny kitchenette and opens the fridge to fetch himself a beer. On the other side of the wall, angry voices begin shouting at each other. Alan looks at the clock.
19:30 hours. Right on cue.
He pops open the can and takes a healthy swig before limping back to his chair. The screaming children and shouting voices create a cacophany that hurts his head, so he turns the television back on.
"...in comfort and style. The Treznor LS-22 Luxury Sedan. Why settle for anything less?"
Good question. You have one billion people to look after, my dear Emperor. What are you going to do with them? You can't keep stacking them in these super-skyscrapers with the tissue-thin walls. Everyone wants a piece of the pie these ads offer. Something's gonna give sooner or later.
Alan proceeds to get thoroughly and blissfully drunk until he finally falls asleep in front of the tube.
"One billion candles were lit along the city walks to commemorate each citizen of our Empire. Thanks to the all-pervasive security barcoding, each candle holder has a name inscribed on it. The Emperor has pledged that each citizen so honoured will receive their candle as a reminder of this great day.
"Imperial Guardsman walk the streets keeping an eye out for revelers who might get a little too rowdy, and national forces are on high alert against foreign aggression.
"In other news, the stock market rose twelve points in heavy trading..."
Gunnery Sergeant Alan Scofield (retired) turns off the television and sits back in his chair with a heavy sigh. His tiny apartment is dark without the huge screen providing illumination, and for a moment it seems eerily quiet. Unfortunately, the silence is quickly punctuated by the screams of small children next door.
One billion citizens. One billion little brats like those snot-nosed girls next door. One billion haughty bitches like that lesbian upstairs who doesn't care if I can hear when she's practicing her perversion with her girlfriend. One billion tired old farts like me who gave the best years of their lives to the empire, only to be left with a string of medals, a fat pension and nothing to do.
Alan looks around to the familiar confines of his apartment, a place he can't call home even after three years. Along the north wall rests his memoirs from the Service. His medals, his patches, endless pictures and his old parade dress uniform. He still fits the uniform, even after thirty years.
Still fit enough to run the pants off half the young jackboots they're recruiting for the service. Now, after all this time, the Emperor decides to swell the ranks and build a military to be proud of. Not the tiny little token force I served in. Why now, of all times, when I'm no good to anyone? Not even myself.
He stands, uncomfortably aware of the aching joints and popping tendons that betray his advanced age. He limps to the tiny kitchenette and opens the fridge to fetch himself a beer. On the other side of the wall, angry voices begin shouting at each other. Alan looks at the clock.
19:30 hours. Right on cue.
He pops open the can and takes a healthy swig before limping back to his chair. The screaming children and shouting voices create a cacophany that hurts his head, so he turns the television back on.
"...in comfort and style. The Treznor LS-22 Luxury Sedan. Why settle for anything less?"
Good question. You have one billion people to look after, my dear Emperor. What are you going to do with them? You can't keep stacking them in these super-skyscrapers with the tissue-thin walls. Everyone wants a piece of the pie these ads offer. Something's gonna give sooner or later.
Alan proceeds to get thoroughly and blissfully drunk until he finally falls asleep in front of the tube.