So I had to stand in line. Waiting for a check of all things. True, I took part. I was forced to. I’ve liberally bent over for the “dollar” on so many occasions throughout my life that I no longer count them as significant. I use the dirty god muscle of money only because, in this world, this façade they’ve built up, I could not survive without it. Everything is owned and rationed out for far too steep a price. It would be near impossible to live in this country without taking part in the dance. So we apply ourselves, languidly; up and upon our gods. Sodomized in our minds.
AUTHENTIC, REAL, IMPORTANT.
So I stand, prepared to bow and receive, in a makeshift pen for us makeshift cattle. Forced to breathe the squalid, dirty air and the smells of things that people have done. The day was hot outside, that was true, but in here… death, suffocation, disease. I reach into my pocket and fumble with the grip of the pistol. It makes me think of ice, which makes me feel the heat, which reminds me of the filthy pollution I’m breathing in and out. I need to reshuffle the deck, put my will into practice, change one of the variables. My lungs swell around short, sharp, and shallow gasps. My tongue stabs the back of my dried throat and little pieces of it break off and get stuck in my windpipe. I start to choke, but the pieces dislodge themselves and make for my belly… suddenly I can breathe again. The woman in front of me takes a few unsure and labored steps forward in the line leaving a gap between us. I feel relieved, appreciative of this distance, small as it may have been. But a hand, a human hand, touches my shoulder.
I hear the noises of the ugliest language and I reason the animal wants me to move up, close the gap… move the line ahead.
