Fiction – Page 3 – (de)Generate Stories

Sister

I was worried after she told me. Small town in the south. I’d by lying if I said I wasn’t worried.

Truth be told, it took me a while to get used to using those pronouns too. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth.

“Just be careful,” I told her. And I hate myself for saying that and for feeling the need to say that.

I hate it for turning out to be true.

Most of the family were less than receptive. And I had to fight like hell. And they won’t talk to me anymore, a lot of them.

But the tombstone reads “Jackie” instead of “Jack.”

Because it should.

Pursuit

There are people who want to kill me. It is a known fact. At least, I am told it is a known fact.

It is what my security people tell me. At least, I think they are my security people. They could be people I have paid to impersonate my security people. This is for the safety of my actual security people and myself.

It is because of this constant threat from the people who want to kill me that we have to take these types of precautions. It is supposed to make my life easier.

Every morning at 8:00 am a black sedan pulls up to one of my houses to pick me up. It is not actually me they are picking up. It is instead somebody who looks a lot like me and has been trained to pretend to be me.

I never know which house the black car will pull up to on which day. It might be the me that is at the house with my family, though they are not actually my family. Instead, they are people who look like my family and who we pay to pretend to be my family.

It might be the house that my pretend parents live in. It could be the house one of the me’s pretends to vacation in.

I do not know how many houses I own or how many me’s there are.

There could be more than one black car on a given day picking up on of the many me’s at one of the many houses. I do not know this for sure.

I do know that some of the black cars on the road did not stop at a house and do not have a passenger. I know that this happens sometimes but not all of the time.

After the black cars leave one of the many houses, they will drive one of many routes. This all depends on the scenario they are running that day.

At some point during their drive, one or more white vans will start to follow them. The vans are white because I am told these are the types of vans the people who are trying to kill me typically drive.

We do not know who is in the vans or how many of them there are. We outsource this. I am told this is to protect the integrity of the scenario.

So on any given day there could be any given number of black cars that may or may not have a pretend me as a passenger. And any number of white vans with any number of passengers pretending to be people who want to kill me in pursuit.

There are three things I know to be real: the black cars, the white vans, and the guns and ammunition.

The situations vary depending on the day and the scenario being run on that given day.

All or none of the black cars may be run off the road and all or none of the white vans may win the pursuit, for instance.

Or if, say, 3 of the black cars are run off the road or forced in to an accident, 1 out of those 3 black cars may experience a fatality. The white vans may open fire and kill one of the pretend me’s.

I am told their are trillions of possible permutations in these scenarios, based on the number of black cars that are either carrying a pretend me or are empty and the number of white vans in pursuit and the number of fatalities that may or may not occur.

Every day I sit and wait in my secure bunker for the scenario report. It is a secure location so there are no windows or telephones or televisions or radios or electronics of any kind.

Every day I sit and wait for the report.

Every day somebody who may or may not be my chief security offices comes in and delivers what may or may not be the actual report of the scenario that we may or may not have run that day.

So far, we have run 2,137 scenarios with 2,137 different outcomes.

So far, I am told, there is no way to be sure that I am in fact safe from the people who want to kill me.

Promise

So, you live in the neighborhood? This is, like, your spot and shit? Just saying, you seem to know a lot of people here.

Yeah? Oh, right on. Yeah, haha, that’s not too far to stumble home. Right on.

No, well no, well yeah, I mean, I’ve lived in this neighborhood for like 15 years and shit. Like right above this place, man. Right above. Yeah, yeah, that’s right. I’ve just never been in here before. Seemed like I cool spot, I just—

Hey, let me ask you something, man. Like it’s not a big deal or some deep personal type shit. I just wanted to know.

You ever — no, no, hey, let me get that for you. Yeah, no it’s alright, I got this round. Same again, please. Yeah, I got his too.

So, oh yeah no problem, my pleasure, so like you ever promised somebody something? Like a big one. You don’t have to tell me what it was and shit. Just, like, you ever do that? Give your word and everything?

Yeah? You keep it, man? Did you follow through and everything? You don’t have to answer that. Fuck. Jesus, it’s none of my business, man.

Just saying. I did. Like gave my word and shit. Liked I begged them, to believe me, you know? That’d I’d follow through. This time. The last time was the last time and everything. That’s what I told them. Fucking on my knees and shit man, promising the world and all that, you know?

What? Did I keep — fuck yeah I kept it. I meant that shit. For 15 years, man. Good as my word.

But man, I’ll tell you, man, things change, you know? Just like that. Bam. Done. Gone. Things change. In a flash, an instant, everything. Different.

Kept that shit for 15 years. Good as my word. But things change and now they’re—

Fuck, sorry man. I’m sorry. It’s just fresh. Fucking fresh and raw. Still raw. You know? Like they’re fucking gone, man. And I can’t believe it.

I can still see it. The scene and shit. Bright lights everywhere, man. Broken glass everywhere, man. And they’re fucking face right through—

It’s my fault. Man, it’s all my fault. Stupid fucking argument and I just—I just wasn’t paying attention, man. Wasn’t watching the road.

Let me ask you something. Let me ask you something. No, I’m good. I’m good. Let me ask you: you think I’m a piece of shit, man? You think I’m a bad person?

I mean, 15 years. Good as my word. Not a drop. Not a fucking drop, man. And now. Here I am. You think I’m a piece of shit, man? You do, don’t you. I can see it. Don’t turn away from me. Hey, why you turning away from me?

Alright, fine. Yeah, that’s right. I’m a piece of shit. Hey, everybody, look at me! Look at the piece of shit! Well, whatever. 15 years!

Hey, hey, hey, let’s get another round. Hey, just one more shot. Hey! Don’t you fucking—

Aw shit! Fuck. Damn, no, no, no, I’ll clean it up. Give me a rag. It’s just glass. Nah, he ain’t cut bad, man. C’mon, that ain’t bad.

Fine. Fine. I’m going. Fuck you. Oh yeah? Yeah? Really. Really? Fine. I’ll go.

I’ll be back, though, man.

I promise you I’ll be back.

Layer

If you thought about their headwear, like the style and color and how well it fit or didn’t, or how long they may or may not have owned it, or how many days or weeks or months or years they’d been wearing it, or if it was brand new and thoughtfully chosen to reflect the rest of them, you might come to certain conclusions. Like if you only thought about that, what was on their head.

If you thought about their hair, like how long or short it was, or if it was dyed or natural, or how much time the spent on it each day, like 2 minutes or 2 hours, or if they used a comb or a brush or nothing at all, did they use a blow dryer or a towel or just let it air dry, did they get it cut when their barber or stylist or friends told them to, or did they care or not care or not have the luxury to care, you might come to certain conclusions. Like if you thought about all of those things, when it came to their hair.

If you looked at and took the time and consideration to look at and contemplate their clothes alone, like are they new or old or how long have they had them and did they buy them first or second hand or did they get them at a donation spot or from some discarded pile on the street, is their outfit last year’s style or this year’s style or two decades old or are they way ahead of the time, do they follow or set trends or do they not have the time or energy or luxury or any of those things to care about such things when it comes to their clothes, do they wear one outfit a day or do they switch it up once or twice, do they think it’s acceptable to wear the same pants two days in a row, three days, maybe even four, or do they just wear the same thing all the time, like each and every day, because it makes things simpler or because it’s all they have, that one outfit, you might come to certain conclusions and form certain opinions and make certain judgements. Like if you thought about all of these things, when it came to their clothes alone.

If you thought about their skin alone, like maybe the color or the scars, or lack thereof, or the amount of course or fine body hair, or the lack thereof, or the shade and shape of bruises, or lack thereof, or the freckles or moles, or lack thereof, or whether or not it was smooth or moisturized or dry or cracked or tight or sagging, you might come to certain conclusions. Like if you thought about all of those various things in relation to their skin alone.

If you thought about their organs alone, like how well they function and are they the right color and do they hurt from time to time, would they be able to donate their organs or are they even an organ donor or do they care about other people enough to donate their organs, will their organs function 10 years or 10 months or 10 days or 10 minutes from now, will they systematically shut down or will it be something else, you might come to certain conclusions and make certain assumptions and make some predictions. Like if you thought about all of those various and diverse things in relation to their organs alone.

If you thought about them on a cellular level alone, like if you thought about them on some deep fundamental level, like if you thought about their atoms and the vibrations and the frequencies and the fact that it’s all just manifestations of energy coming together to form some sort of corporeal form that we neither fully know or understand or even own, we just inhabit for an unspecified amount of time that’s beyond our control and then we don’t, inhabit that, and we just become the energy we once and always were and like how it’s really the same recycled energy and like how we might have at one time been their headwear, their hair, their clothes, their skin, their organs, like we might have once been the same on a cellular level, you might come to certain profound and inescapable and ineffable conclusions. Like if you took the time and effort and the consideration, like if you took one god damned fucking moment to slow down and consider all of these various things concerning them on a cellular level.

Lion

There’s a structure with bars, sleek and black and vertical. There’s a man in a suit, slim-fitting and black with vertical lines. There’s a small son beside him, with hair that’s slicked back and black and fine.

There’s an animal behind the bars of the structure, wild and captive and pacing. There’s the man and the son close by on the other side, above it all and still and watching.

There’s a thick mane of hair and sharp claws. There’s an expensive gold watch and a corporate expense card. There’s sticky candy-coated fingers and a tiny red toy car.

There’s a thing the man says to the son: “I can’t help but feel sad. This, this is making me sad.”

There’s the thing the son says to the man: “Why?”

“That’s an apex predator, the lion. A keystone, too. Two predators in one. An apex and a keystone. It’s at the top of the food chain. It has a significant and disruptive affect on its environment relative to its population size.

There’s a lesson here. This thing that I can’t help but feel a little sad about, it can teach you a few things.”

“What are those? The things it can teach?”

“Maybe it’s just one thing. One lesson”

“And?”

“Don’t get caught.”

———————————————————————

There’s a structure with a bullet-proof partition, a steel and sterile and guarded structure. There’s a man in a jumpsuit, one-piece and monotone and state-issued. There’s a son, older now, in hand-me-downs that are a style not at all his own.

There’s the thing the son says to the man: “I can’t help but feel a little sad. This, this is making me sad.”

There’s the thing the man says to the son: “Why?”

“I thought you were two predators in one. This was a thing I thought to be true.

But there’s a lesson here. In this place and this man and this thing that’s making me sad. There’s something I needed to learn.”

“And?”

“Don’t get caught.”

Technology

It had to be there. He knew that. That it had to be there. The SiriScan(tm) told him it was there. Somewhere. While SiriScan(tm)’s AI and scanning capabilities where impressive, they were far from perfect or even precise. Still. It had to be there. Somewhere. The scan said so.

It had been hours now. The searching and scanning and prodding and digging. His right hand shook and was far from steady. His left arm, scalpel-sliced, veins and sinews like HDMIs.

He was feeling light-headed and unsure. But it had to be there. So he asked SiriScan(tm) to look again.

“Microchip still present. Location uncertain. Possibly in spleen or kidney. Abdomen area promising.”

He took a not-small sip of SteadySyrup(tm) and rubbed a not-small amount of PainBGone(pending) around his stomach. He placed the wooden spoon in his mouth, made a not-small incision, and bit down hard.

He couldn’t be sure. He would never be able to say for sure. It would’ve been the last thing he said, however unsure it might have been. But he thought, before everything went black, that he heard SiriScan(tm) laugh.