So, after eliminating the last of the elitist and inefficient ruling elite of this suburb-sized valley settlement, The Cloaked Man began using his true name:Elio.That, and he corrected another misnomer by truncating the word City out of City of Slow Dreams. Elimination of what he alone rightfully declared illogical elements, that was one of Elio’s policies—whenever he could actually carry out such policies himself.
More elimination:For good reason, he previously eliminated the other two members of his own party of conquest.Had those two remained alive and active to stand against him—the elfin cyborg and the gynoid—then they would have inhibited his rulership.Protested against political plans.Would stifle his stride.Would form a counter coup.Elio knew ancient history; he knew that he had to eliminate the competition.
Indeed, he eliminated the competition, just as he eliminated the Town Hall’s members.Can’t have political opponents in a new regime.Coming into power also meant that Elio had control over all the suburb’s utilities:electricity generation, food synthesis, water purification, and—of course—control over the twin fusion reactors built into part of the surrounding mountain range.
After changing the people politically, Elio began changing some of them physically.Compounding his propensity for effective and direct political maneuvering, Elio himself was a highly skilled technician:He revived and brought innovation to the practice of body replacement—making people into synth-flesh cyborgs.At first, fifteen teenagers of this valley settlement undertook the procedures, and they become a new tribe of Ganglanders.This, though most everyone else preferred to retain their real bodies.
The timing for that re-development of cyborg technology was quite good—because e in the first year of Elio’s rulership, a sort of social endemic came to this town-sized settlement in the valley.It was a disease in which humans became randomly violent.Without warning, humans would simply throw down whatever they were doing and begin to beat others—to kill.Those afflicted by this disease were called RVHs—Randomly Violent Humans.
Speculation:Maybe, the weather was the cause—perpetually overcast skies leading to it.Or, the cause could have been changes in chemical composition of the air—affecting the human brain.Another potential explanation could have been how Elio’s Tr-W weather modification station made harmful changes in the electrical properties of the air—in turn causing changes in the people’s behavior by interfering with human brains.Whatever, there were now completely random outbreaks of violent behavior by otherwise-normal humans.
Elio was the mayor; it was Elio’s responsibility to address the problem.From behind his vast wooden desk in his large carpeted office, the office of his hilltop mansion, Elio made a policy decision:Slow Dream’s population of Ganglanders must move to eliminate any randomly violent humans—RVHs—and then report the elimination to the mayor.A kind-sort of laid-back policing policy, Elio called it.This town’s Ganglanders were made Elio’s de-facto police force.
After that, life in Slow Dreams went on almost as normal.Children went to school, working-age humans continued working their professions, government was just as laid back as before.But, the weather was different.And there were now people who suddenly and randomly became afflicted by RVH syndrome and had to be killed.And the now-local tribe of synth-leather clad cyborg youth—the Ganglanders—had to kill the RVHs.
With those otherwises in place, Slow Dreams would live on under a beautifully overcast sky, live on with random citizens becoming brutal.Life was life.People were people, be they human or synthetic-bodied.Everything went on as close to usual as possible, even with the wonderful sky overhead.It was a beautiful day today, no need to mourn or fret.These people are, after much all, still in Slow Dreams.
City of Slow Dreams: Chapter 11 (by Elliot Bowers)
It was an unnamed number of decades since he took control of Slow Dreams.And all of that rulership meant that he had to take periodic breaks.Yes, Elio decided to walk the streets of his town today, his tanned and moderately muscular physique clad in slacks, tee shirt and the cape.
The outfit, with the cape.His town.Slow Dreams is run by Elio.No one would tell him otherwise.Also, no one would speak against him stepping out of the mansion (once the Town Hall) and walking the neat, well-kept and tensor field-maintained streets.This with gray-white clouds overhead; very cool wind blew along the quiet street; wind blew through cape and casual clothes.A good day for a break.
Stepping along the house-and-tree-lined quiet street, he made random observations.No one was outside work or school at this midday hour—everyone save some black-clad Ganglanders along sidewalks and white-clad town maintenance specialists working on roadside trees.Good-goody, everyone’s keeping things up and decent without my freaking micromanagement, he thought as he stepped along this road.
And then he saw how deadpan the town maintenance workers were, especially those varied workers over there by that tree—them working with tired looks on their grown-up faces.They had slight frowns; he had a slight smile.It was a real smile coming on.He had a better idea:As part of his mayoral activities, he would pull a prank.
Elio had random indications that he “had to” act to keep the perpetually suburbanite townspeople out of complacency.This was effectively done by him strutting into town and pulling random pranks.Slow Dreams could not be allowed to just rest and watch the clouds go by forever.No, they needed goading to keep morale up.
Being the mayor, being the sovereign of Slow Dreams, he could do that.He ruled the utilities and controlled the weather; he controlled the Ganglanders; he could do anything he wanted.Though generally too darned busy overseeing the civil service’s maintenance of the town and the town’s general status, he sometimes had time enough to just be himself and raise some Hell among the humans.Like now!
His meandering and free-moving strut took him past blocks.He passed one of the town’s libraries…No, he would not stir stupid silliness in there; he liked the libraries.Pull trouble in a diner?Nope, he liked diners because they made damned good coffee there.Why not a shop?Because there were no people in shops at this time of day, and he wanted to start pulling a prank now.And then he saw a pub.
Timult’s Pub was an authentic holdover from the Old Days.It generally looked like a two-story stone-walled house.The well-cut tan stones forming walls.There were two windows on the ground floor, two big windows looking out at the street.The big window up top could give a decent view of the local neighborhood.Topping it was a gabled roof of brown shingles.What distinguished it as a pub—not as a wonderful house—was the shield-shaped mounted sign that swung over the front door.Aye, thought Elio, at least it has the darned look of a decent pub.
Standing
before the door in, Elio put his left hand on the pub’s front door handle—then
paused.Thinking, Oh,this is going
to be so-o-o-o cool!A cool blowing
breeze blew as a fresh grin came to his face, the breeze blowing against
his clothes and cape.Grin in place,
the mayor of Slow Dreams thought of what to do when inside.
The main area of Timult’s Pub was just as wonderfully warm as the outside promised by sight.The lighting from the ceiling was a soft, low-tone yellow: simulating gas lighting.And things were generally wood—synth-wood.The floor was dark wood.Wooden tables around, with nice wooden chairs, all wooden furniture all around in the big comfortable main area.The drinking bar was forward and left, and there was a small stage at the right—over there, at the far end.Nice and homely, as pubs should be.
Ka-choonk!The door slammed shut, and Elio was inside.Everybody looked up—people at tables and with some at the drinking bar.Patrons of this time of day, about now, were elderly.Willow-bodied and in big frumpish clothing.They were elderly because they refused to undergo body replacement surgery.
Several Ganglanders inside, too—dressed in traditional Ganglander clothing:synth-cotton jeans, boots, white tee shirt with black leather jacket.Two were dark-haired boys, one a female with long red hair.Those Ganglanders raised their cups of coffee in greeting, and the elderly nodded deliberate greetings over mugs of ale.
Those greetings were neutral and somberly respectful—even the smiles from the Ganglanders.They respected him, the townspeople.Not that they loved him, not that they ran to grip him as they would a demi-god, but respected him deeply because he was a necessary person.
Looking around, Elio thought, I’lll really have to rally up the people with a tiny little all-around dosage of morale boosting.He strode over to the bar, stared at intently by the big, blustery, traditionally clad bartender—white shirt, black slacks and a dark apron.“Greetings to ya, Mr. Elio,” said Gasford the bartender.
“Howdy, howdy, howdy-do!” said Elio to the bartender.“I’m walking in here for not a little fun.And, somewhat maybe, you’ll want to desire being behind your bar soon.”He gave a wink to the bartender all the same.“Know what I mean, Gasford?Eh, eh?”
“That I do, Elio,” said the bartender carelessly, generally understanding the mayor.He, Gasford, then hunkered to sit down on the floor behind the drinking bar, putting him out of sight.He knew what was going to happen.Ah well, the Ganglanders would clean up after…
“Thank you kindly,” said Elio to Gasford, the out-of-sight bartender.Then, this caped mayor stepped over to the bar, raised a thick-soled black sneaker to a stool to get up and stand atop the bar—people at this bar looking up.
He began walking up there, moving along the left of the polished brown surface.Incidentally, he knocked over a few elderly people’s drinks.Elderly people, this place was almost totally elderly—save several jeans-and-white-shirted Ganglander youth.
Elio raised his big hands, chest musculature rippling beneath tee shirt.“Hello, everybody!”In response, the small crowd went, Hey-y-y!Continuing, this mayor said, “I’ve been walking down the street, trying not to smile, when I had a real indication that some people have looks that seem soberingly sad.Hah, so I stated something sober.Because, basically, some sad sulkers sulk—people in public, outside the pub.But, why in tarnation did I come in here to talk about sober things?This is not the place for it…”A pause.“Being sober that is.”Yes, he noticed how the humans in here were not quite sober themselves.
Drunkenness was something in how they hung their wrinkled faces.A something in the posture of their thin frail bodies in frumpy simple clothes.And, it was the something in the slight slur in their side-conversational murmur-commentary to each other.It was a pub with plenty of elderly people, them all getting slowly plastered.
“Something’s maybe going to be missing,” continued the mayor.“Maybe something I’m thinking.That…” Then he stopped talking, facial animation stopping.He remembered—or just thought of something.“I have a feeling that something is up…Dang it, I think I left a pitcher of coffee on my desk.Can’t have a pitcher of damned good coffee going to waste, can I?I have to go.See you a little later, people.Feel more than free to rant amongst yourselves; my Ganglanders won’t bite or mutilate.Free speech for all, right guys?”
The Ganglanders at the tables raise their cups of darned good coffee and nodded in confirmation.Yes, absolutely free speech was allowed under Elio’s rulership.Free action, though, was seriously different.
“Sweet!” said Elio.“So, away I go, away from you—all of you all,” he said.With a swirl of movement, Elio he brought his cape around with his left hand—the cape held before him like a portable curtain. There was a breeze, and then he vanished—presumably back to his mansion to drink that coffee of his.
Which left people in the pub to talk about their mayor.Oh, Elio allowed plenty of people to talk about him.He loved it when people talked about him—the single most powerful man in town.Nothing too darkening was said about him, but people did have things to say.This was especially so whenever people were not quite sober—like now.
The bartender got up from where he hid behind the bar.Elio was not going to do his thing here after all—hopefully.Hoping, wondering, if today would go by without a prank messing up his pub.
The elderly humans—aware of the Ganglanders in the pub—were somewhat hesitant to begin talking about Elio.And there was still the lingering presence of that caped man.He was the mayor of the town, the absolute ruler.The discomfort of silence hung in the pub after the mayor’s leaving.But someone had to re-kindle conversation.
That someone walked into the pub—a tall and strong-bodied old man in coveralls, a tee shirt worn with his coveralls and hair just as white atop his head.“Barkeep!” he said, moving between tables and over to the drinking bar.The bartender sauntered up.Slowly, the coverall-wearing old man drawled, “I’ll really have myself a fucked-up pint of fucking root beer.”
The bartender went to the back—ignoring the many varied labeled bottles along the top.Instead, he used one of the synthesis taps:He dialed the shorthand combination for fucking root beer, dialed on the small keypad next to the tap, then used a mug to catch the foaming drink.A fresh pint of fucking root beer.
He turned around to set the pint of fucking root beer before the tall coverall-wearing old man.That old man brought the fucking root beer to his lips, but not before slightly dipping the mug at the bartender.Cheers.The old man in coveralls downed the entire pint of fucking root beer in a massive gulp.
As if taking energy from the massive intake of glucose and caffeine, the tall coverall-wearing old man wheeled around on his stool—bringing him to face the people at the tables—below his vantage point up here on the stool“It’s damned silent in this blessed pub.What, is something fucking wrong with everybody in here?”
Silence.Continuing…“You know what, everybody?” he rhetorically asked aloud.“I’mgoing to disagree with some people and say that killing off the town council was probably the most efficient thing that Elio did for this town.”
Three of the four elderly women among the patrons nodded, women at tables.One of the four shook her head.General agreement in the pub about that, save one.Elio being in power was not always a big point of contention; he tended to keep the folks happy.
Happy, save for occasional disagreement.Like that one thin old woman sitting over there. The one disagreeing old woman, a small woman in a flower-print dress, shook her head—her long white-gray hair slightly swishing against her frail straight-postured back.She leaned forward on the table, thin elbows on the surface.
“So, sir,” she began in her English-accented voice,“you detested who the citizenry voted for?No manners at all regarding others, you…” She took in a breath, feeling the fire of a debate heating her frail insides, building up to her thin wrinkled face.“Prior to Elio, we voted for who we wanted to rule this town.Good and fitting people.Good and fitting members as they were of our own choosing.Not, mind you, the sort of solitary ruler who passes laws from on high.”
The coverall-wearing man formed an o with his puckered lips.He was going to say something—hesitating.“Whew, lady!What a vo-cab-ulary you got yourself on you.But, trying to simplify all that fancy jibber-jabber, I’m maybe thinking that you liked the Town Council.Those shits-for-breeding dumb fucks who sat on the over-fucked Town Council every fucking year.Fucking, because those dumb fucks just spent most of their time fucking each other and fucking their brains with damned rush pills most every day of the week.Fucking their own damned brains and body!”Some people at the tables nodded and murmured in agreement.The coverall-wearing old man finished off that point:“So Hell yeah, those are the dumb fucks you voted for.”
Trying to ignore the brutality of speech, the small elderly woman in flower-print dress responded.“Granted, the Town Council did retain substance abuse issues.And, yes, the Town Council had a history of…wanton excess.However they behaved, we voted for them.We selected our leadership, and they remained so.And the City of Slow Dreams continued along as usual.”
“Voted for those diarrhea-brained head-shits, did you?” exclaimed the coverall-wearing old man, leaning forward on his stool.Rough hands on rough-clad knees knees.“Well, that kind of, sort of, somewhat puts a whole new breeze of ass-gas on the wholedamned debate!” he said, shouting the last three words.Smiling, “And according to your thinking, shit-headed dumb fucks are downright suitable for rulership just because people vote for them?Or, just because they happened to have enough free time on their hands to become members of the Town Council at all?”
More murmured agreement, especially with the three Ganglanders who remained
in here:Indeed, before the new government, the process for becoming a candidate for rulership in the Town Council was a bureaucratic mess that occurred during work hours.That left only a select group of townspeople able to pursue rulership.Another issue:rulership of the Town Council was further restricted to just that inbred elite.
But not with Elio around.No, because now, there was no way to become part of the Town Council—because there was no longer any Town Council.Problem solved, or moot point.
That next deep-hitting common critique finally got her.Clenching her jaw and shaking one of her small fists, the thin little woman in flower dress blustered, “I never!Never heard such condemnation of our town’s voting system!As horrible as the Town Council members tended to be, they were our Town Council members.Ours, not cape-bearing, muscle-bound madmen from the plains.Like a certain someone who rules from his desk.”
Smirking, the coverall-wearing old man at the stool turned his upper body just enough to reach back and tap his mug—a signal for another serving of fucking root beer.The bartender quickly poured another serving of fucking root beer from the synthesizer tap.Then gave the fucking root beer to the old man.The coverall-wearing old man took the new pint of fucking root beer in a single gulp.
He then responded to the old lady.“You know what?I couldn’t give a fuck-a-duck about Elio’s mental state.Don’t give a hog-shit about what Elio wears, either.He could wear a beanie and ass-hugging bell-bottomed metal-gray pants—with nothing underneath—for all we should care!
“But things are better with Elio in power—one damned good man.You have to admit we got a bigger-ass selection of technologies with him around.We got more food-synthesizing technology!And we won’t have to worry about hand-grown crops to supplement the weak meals our previously mediocre food synthesizers gave.
“On top of all that, more thanks to Elio, we got ourselves better, faster book-learning with those damned hypno-education gadgets set up in the school.Damned kids can finish up all their basic schooling at sixteen—and be a whole ass-load smarter than you ever probably will be in what’s left of your life!
“Best of all, we got ourselves the option of becoming one o’ them cyborgs any time.Synthetic-bodies to replace the worn-out ones we got.Beats the Hell out of having to take that chemical cocktail shit to extend our lives.Fuck-a-duck!Getting body replacement is better, becoming cyborgs.
“Cyborgs, like them Ganglanders over there.They can live for three hundred years—and still look like young folks.Like what Whatshisname…Like what Mr. Ben Thunderhorse said.When this body o’ mine’s too beat by life, I’m going to get it replaced.
“Elio gave us better-behaved government.He gave us better food technology.Education is damned better, too.And he gives us some more damned years to live with body replacement technology.Elio is a fucking better government.If you can fit it, put that in your bong and smoke it, toots!Oops, I’m not sure if you know what a bong is—you probably not being up on Ancient history!”
The small old woman in flower print dress took the verbal assault full in her chest.Head full of anger and heart full of humiliation, she looked around.Everyone looked at her.
Over there, at the tables nearest the bar, the people had mild smiles on their similarly wrinkled faces.They agreed completely with that coveralled tall old man at the drinking bar.
And at the other side, at the left wall, the people suppressed smiles.Some looked away, slightly giggling.They agreed with that tall man in coveralls.
Even the Ganglanders in here…Looking back to the right, in the corner, the three teenage-looking Ganglanders sipped that damned coffee of theirs, not bothering to quite look at the small old woman in flower-print dress.Damned fine coffee, they were probably thinking.Those Ganglanders of this settlement, they swigged the very stuff in amounts comparable to that madman who now ruled as mayor—or dictator—of this town.Wa-hey, even the Ganglanders!
The small old woman in flower-print dress got up, slowly walked over to the bar—very near to where her debate opponent now sat.Heads turning as she moved.Looking at her, that tall old man in coveralls just smiled.Not smiling back, the small old woman reached into her right pocket—and began taking out the dollars to pay for her previous drinks.
Quicker, the coverall-wearing old man slapped a ten-spot on the bar’s formica top—over-paying for the small woman’s drink.“No need, ma’am.Fucking you over, albeit verbally, was a pleasure worth paying for.”He winked.
That was all the small old woman in the flower-print dress could take from anyone today.She felt her heart acting up because she was just so angry and just so humiliated.To preserve the ruined remains of her personal dignity, the small old woman in the flower dress left:turned on her low-heeled soft shoes and strode—head up and back straight—out of the pub.In opening and slamming the door, she threw down the three dollars she was going to use to pay for her drinks.Not a care:all the elderly of Slow Dreams are given generous pensions under Elio’s government.
The gray-haired old man in coveralls shrugged his big shoulders.Everyone’s eyes were on him, but he just slowly turned away on the stool.“Guess she ain’t the debating type.She didn’t even thank me for schooling her up a bit.”
There were snickers and suppressed guffaws all around.For them, Elio’s rulership was not a bad thing after all.Sure, the weather was weird.And so what, some of us humans turned RVH and went randomly violent?Elio could probably solve it.Elio was just a damned good ruler.
The tall gray-haired old man in coveralls stood up from his stool.“And now, it is time for someone completely different.”That said, he undid the straps of his coveralls, dropping them to the floor.Beneath, he wore tan-colored slacks—topped with that tee shirt he had on now.He rubbed his hands and arms a certain way, and that undid the pinpoint tensor fielding over his skin—making his seemingly mottled skin return to a more youthful and red-tan appearance.Then he tore off his own head.Actually, it was just a rubberoid mask.Big boots came off to reveal thick-soled footwear beneath.The result:Elio now stood where the “old man” had once been, stood with a pile of various disguising materials at his feet.
Revealed, Elio held out his arms.“Ta da! Can you dig that?”The bartender shook his head and deliberately turned back to cleaning mugs at a small sink behind the bar.Those in the pub laughed and clapped—as did Elio’s Ganglanders, of course.
Elio gathered and bunched up the dispensed costume materials into one armful:boots, coveralls, and rubberoid face.He then wrapped those goods in the cape at his back.The cape crackled with expending energy, and then he unfurled the cape; tthe disguise materials were no longer there.Moving to sit at the bar again, Elio asked, “Think I can pull that prank again, Gasford?”
“Doubt it, for now,” said the bartender.“I would think that pranks are only good the first time around.Especially with spited active-minded lasses like the one that strutted on out o’ here like that.”The bartender poured a serving of damned good coffee into a mug, poured from a special tap, set the mug before Elio.“At least,” he added on, “give ’er another fifteen years or so.Let old age fog her a bit more. Then try it again.”
“Not a bad bit of advice,” said Elio.He then took his serving of damned good coffee, drank it straight off.He tossed the mug back to the bartender, who caught it and began cleaning it with other mugs in the small sink.“And, I probably guess I will hang around today.Know what I mean?”
The bartender knew what Elio meant.He then bartender dutifully ducked behind the bar for the second time today.This was going to take a while, so he took out a cached book from back here and began to read; Elio would do his thing any moment now.
In fact, Elio began doing his thing right now.Now, he began pacing up and down the bar, cape fluttering and thick-dark soles clumping along the formica surface—sounding and looking like hooves cloven the wrong way.And he began his rant.
“You hear to know,” he said, facing the rather aged patronage.“I’m pretty sure Miss Tailor didn’t appreciate my little disguise bit, not one bit.No, wait and be temporarily patient; Miss Tailor didn’t see to understand that as a prank at all, did she?”The people, very fully in Elio’s sway, slowly shook their heads.No, guess not, Elio…“Nah, I didn’t quite really think or believe so.That skinny old reactionary couldn’t appreciate good political sense if it came dressed in a tuxedo to her front door, carrying a bouquet of really good flowers that smell like summer breezes.”Small tittering.
“Really, though,” said Elio, gesturing to the crowd.“When I came to Slow Dreams, I only had the clothes and cape at my back and a head full of coffee-fueled ideas.All of those troubles, all of that struggle, all that kept me moving and grooving on was a vision.A dream.Dream being, I wanted to be somebody.And I would have to do certain things to make that dream-vision come true.
“In the meanwhile, you of this town had your own problems with your rulers—the Town Council.Sure, they kept laws to keep the Old Days alive in Slow Dreams.And everyone kept at living as normal as life as possible.
“Trouble is, though, trying to remain as normal did mean a piling up of currency cash that slept harder than a cricket on a misty day in New Zealand.Without kiwis to chirp it up.Chirp it to death before it could begin its own chirping.Just breeze-winded complacency, anti-thanks to the Town Council.Chirp, chirp!
“So then, crickets fall asleep and refuse to bother.And, oh bother, they wouldn’t chirp anymore because the kiwis wouldn’t give them any competition.This, even though crickets chirp in ways different from kiwi birds.
“Or, wait up or down a minute, do kiwis chirp?I don’t know.Just read about them somewhere.But they should have chirped, right?Before the War, birds chirped—like most birds should.Like this particular valley-based suburb, birds should chirp with the breeze.”
By now, some patrons’ eyes were beginning to glaze over.Though his own presence was enough to maintain intense attention among the citizenry—him being the sovereign—he somewhat knew the limits of them.Time for a little help from some liquid friends.
“Well now, let’s have-hear some chirping in the breeze right this fresh moment!” he said, reaching into his left pocket.As he reached, there came that signature crackling of his cape—accompanied by a slight breeze through this room.Meaning, Elio was apporting something right now.
“A fresh moment to be made fresher with refreshments.”He pulled his left hand out of his left pocket—pulling a 40 oz. bottle of Brennan’s Special with it.But this particular bottle of the slightly green drink had an extra kick to it—an extra pharmaceutical kick to it.
“Chirping, or doing something with the breeze…” he said, kneeling on the formica bar-top to grab a kicked-over empty mug.He unscrewed the top, pouring the liquid wetly into the mug.Filling it as he said,“With the breeze, that is what’s so darned important.Because chirping, or doing something with the breeze is more important than ending up in the breeze.”Mug in his right and bottle in his left, Elio sat down on the bar-top—legs dangling.Then he made the short hop to the bar floor—careful not to spill the drink.
He stepped into the main dining area, setting the drink before a random patron at one of the tables.And that random patron gladly took sips of the heady beverage—comely wrinkled face stretching into a smile.So what if Brennan’s Special was really meant for cyborg metabolism?It still brought a smile to that patron’s face as the fire-warm feeling filled that old man’s being.
Elio patted the random old man on the head, went to another table.He went to that other table, filling any empty mugs with Brennan’sSpecial.Saying as he poured, “Folks, I really don’t want this town ending up in the breeze.You all deeply know that particular soul-desire, right?Not that I ever had a soul and just desire control of others…” That comment brought some slightly open-eyed looks from some of the elderly people here.“But the sentiment is there all the same.Believe me!Same, all there—it is.Is, it really is.Really.Deeply.Madly!Mwa-ha ha…!Ack-ack-ack!
“Ack!Ahem.I really do want to keep Slow Dreams going.It’s likely part of my dream vision.I don’t know….I do know that I, Elio, am here to keep this town darned good and straight.Like a moving cloud or low-flying insects that buzz languidly in the light of a sunset, a miscolored sunset out on a toxic-blasted plain after some forsaken War.”He walked back to the bar and hopped atop it.“Slow Dreams will continue to exist and persist.Right?Right?”
One of the patrons, one of several elderly men in frumpy sweaters and baggy pants, raised a wavering hand.Elio pointed to him, a man at a table by the door.“S-so,” said the old man, suppressing a belch.“Why did we even want elected leaders to start with?If they’re always doing rush pills and always having sex, why have elected leaders at all?What were the people of those Ancient days thinking?”
Elio nodded from up there on the bar, rugged face grinning.“That’s a darned good cup of coffee.No, it isn’t.That’s a darned good question.”He shifted his bottle of Brennan’s special to his right hand, pointed with his left at the table of three Ganglanders.“See over there, what my Ganglanders are drinking?Those are darned fine—if not damned fine—cups of coffee.A good product that is well made.
“But in the Old Days, the leaders were not well made.Elites of the Old Days, people who ruled governments and most corporations, those over-jacked jackasses and inbred elite sub-morons were the worst sort of drunkards ever to infest the surface of this planet.Because they tended to come from the same families and because they were all collectively spoiled stupid by money, how in the breezes of Hell could those dumb fucks be good leaders?
“I’ll rant to tell how.Yes, the elite of the Old Days—their were minds prematurely in the breeze.But the public couldn’t see how breeze-brained the elite was of that time.Because, the elite had experts to hide behind:speechwriters and PR people and wardrobe specialists and all sorts of other experts.Elected leaders of the Old Days were very good a putting on shows of being good and competent leaders.
“That’s all that was back then:showmanship.Non-genderly speaking, of good course.The female elite of the Old Days were just about as drunken, bloated and fuck-dumb as their similarly inbred elite brothers—who also sat at the heads of world governments and corporations.”
Elio said that, and he pulled another apported bottle of Brennan’s Special.He tossed that onto the floor—the static-tensor fielded bottle not breaking.“Bunch of dumb fucks in the Old Days, them all.No wonder the Town Council acted the way it did—modeling their behavior after elites of the times past.”And then, with patrons crouching to get that bottle of the precious and rare alcoholic substance, Elio apported yet another bottle, then another bottle…Enough bottles for everyone.All the while, his cape crackling madly as he apported those bottles.
All
of today’s pub patronage—except for the three cotton-and-leather-clad Ganglanders—become
pleasantly schmooze.It was a double
impact:Elio’s weaving and free-breezing
verbiage combined with mug-administered doses of Brennan’s Special.Of
important note, it was not just Brennan’s Special, but Brennan’s Special—an
enhanced of the rare and legendary brew.Also,
the effects of Elio’s wording on humans was not just natural; there was
something
else behind it.
Being dosed
with the darned good coffee, the three Ganglanders—two synthetic-bodied
teenageboys and a synthetic-bodied
red-haired teen-girl—knew that Elio…was doing that thing of his.What
someone once called “darkening.”They
were aware of the slight twists on reality he was affecting.A
feeling.
How did
their mayor and boss, Elio, do it?Maybe,
it was related to the slight reality-bending technology of his cape.Or,
something in that apporter field generator installed in his midsection.Whatever
it was, Elio could do things to local reality.
When
he did that, things seemed to seem
bizarre.That
something
that
Elio could generate, it was difficult to describe if not directly experienced.As
if an invisible and slightly magnetic mist were slow-coating everything
with a different feeling.Or, as
if someone turned down all nearby light.
Because,
when Elio started doing that unseeable thing of his, light did seem to
dim just a bit.Shadows seemed
more pervasive, though they were really not.Were
they?And slight breezes came where
there didn’t seem to be any before.Elio
was doing something.
Anyway, Elio was plenty of things to Slow Dream’s tribe of Ganglanders.He was their boss, for one.Nothing stiff and damned formal, but still the head man.Something like an uncle or older brother.An authority figure, he was.A bit whacked, sure.But who wasn’t?
And he made the Ganglanders of this town.Physically, that is.Elio bought body replacement technology to Slow Dreams.Before that, there was just old age to look forward to, until the end of one’s days:drugged up and prolonged death in the hospital until the end.Not with the technology Elio bought—which let them look like teenagers forever.So what, it cost them real-bodied perks like eating and sex were gone?
Now, the three Ganglanders in here enjoyed seeing their boss and big friend—consequently the mayor of Slow Dreams—go to work on the citizenry.“…Which ultimately leads down to buttered rice, cracked plastic cases, and strips of paper with bad handwriting all over,” concluded Elio at this point—stepping along atop the bar.
He figured that, at this point, the patronage here was more than a little well-dosed by the oh-so-special Brennan’s Special he apported.That, and he must have psychologically altered them just enough…Just enough for what he was about to just about now…
He pointed down to one of several drunken elderly men in here, a man in red sweatpants and red sweatshirt.“Hey, you there!” said Elio, voice darkened with accusation.That old man raised a shaking, wobbly finger to his own chest.Me?“Oh yes, you!I kept to telling you and telling then telling some more about you being you, but you still behave like you and refuse to part ways on the blessed forked road of yellow bricks!”
The old man was discombobulated, then suddenly looked shamefaced.Whatever Elio was ranting about, he was right.It was hard to tell what the old man did wrong, but he did do something wrong.That was what he was sure about.Now, what could he do to make it up to Elio.
Managing to comprehend that red-clad old man’s thoughts, Elio told him what he could do.“Now, to make up for stepping along with such wrong, show some grace and punch your friend in the face.Hey, do what I say.”As Elio crossed his arms, the red-clad old man wobble-stood up from his seat, stepped over to the rumple-clothed older man seated across from himself.
Thwack!The
red-clad old man’s withered fist struck the wrinkled flesh of his seatmate’s
face.Reinforced with certain substances
in Brennan’s Special, the seatmate—a rumple-clothed old man—got
up.Stood wobbily—and leapt at the
red-clad old man who struck.That
was just the first of today’s free-for-all in Timult’s Pub.
In a wrestler-style scuffle, the red-clad old man and the rumple-clothed old man tipped each other against the table behind.Three similarly aged old women were sitting there—big women with big dresses and big hair.Also reinforced with those certain special substances in Brennan’s Special, those three old women in big dresses and big hair took to attacking the red-clad old man and the rumple-clothed old man.
Behind the bar, the big blustery bartender heard that kind of thing starting up again. What was he to do?Elio was pulling another prank.Oh, Thunder, thought Gasford. He thought that because there was just the wooden sound of a chair being broken:broken on someone, likely someone who was also broken.
There were five people embroiled in the pub-sized dust-up just then.Those were the the red-clad old, the rumple-clothed man, plus the three big women in big dresses and big hair.Some more people were jostled, spilling their half-done mug of Brennan’s Special.
Just then, five more elderly patrons came down the stairs, coming down from the second floor of this pub—bringing them to the north side of the room.Specifically, those five were men, dressed in pastel-colored business suits.Those five saw the source of the noise.
They saw the nebulous bunch of people grappling and hitting each other.And despite the romping sounds, they heard heavy rolling sounds along the floor.Were those bottles of…Of…Oh, sweet hallelujah, those are two bottles of Brennan’s Special, if not Brennan’s Special!
Not to waste time, two of the five newcomers reached down and picked up the bottles.They passed it among themselves, also becoming as drunk-headed as many patrons on this floor.As they flew warmly into the depths of rapid intoxication, the one-room riot was spreading until everyone was in it.
Someone laughed from atop the drinking bar.In all the noise and quick-flurry fury, it was hard to tell who.So what, a familiar laugh?Who cared?Anyway, the fun has begun!
The room was in a full free-for-all!Everyone attacked someone, fighting someone and ignoring the punches and kicks and bludgeon blows all around.Like the fistfight with the red-clad old man and the rumple-clothed old man.Those two managed to shove away from each other, wrinkled fists balled.Each took occasional hits from an old woman, but the angers of their wills kept them eyeing each other.
The rumple-clothed old man, suit a bit more rumpled, stepped over a recently broken chair. With the momentum of his movement and the strength of whatever was in that Brennan’s Special, he brought his right fist across the red-clothed man’s jaw.He felt a random punch in the back, that hurt a bit, but he still managed to pull back from punching the red-clothed old man.
In response, the red-clothed old man pulled back his right foot and concentrated—mindlessly unaware of all the punches and sounds all around.He kicked straight out…Punt!That kick caught the rumple-clothed old man in the gut.The red-clothed old man pulled a bit of leg muscle in pulling off that kick.Still, that made his opponent go down.Good, he beat that guy.
And then, the temporarily victorious red-clad old man turned and faced someone in a better-looking green suit.That man’s face, though, was about as rumpled-looking as his previous opponent’s suit.But the green-suited old man’s one-two punch combination was not so rumpled—because those two punches made the red-clad old man stagger.
Feeling all the world go swirling with pain-stars, the red-clad old man reached down and tried to get a piece of a broken chair.With that combination of punch-drunkenness, alcohol-drunkenness, and the mixed effects of that Brennan’s Special, it was somewhat hard to pick up a piece of broken chair to swing at his opponent.
Not to worry!There were plenty of pieces of broken chair and other pieces of broken pub furniture.Like..Yeah, here’s a damned good…Oop!A double fist came down on the back of his head.And then he joined his former opponent in unconsciousness.
One of those big old women in big dresses had smashed the red-clad old man.She had a big body with big arms and swollen hands.Then, with a big foot, she prodded him to be sure that he was unconscious.
He was.She, though, was jumped from behind by a husband-and-wife team.Both of them wearing sweaters and sweatpants.The big old woman in big dress and big hair used her fists to try and knock out the old woman in sweater and sweatpants.But, damn it, that woman in sweater and sweatpants was so quick!That woman’s husband punched that old big-dressed old woman.
Elio was above it all—all the noise and the swinging fists and the thrown-down bodies.Watching the smashing punches, the gut-collapsing kicks.There were occasional bodyslams, too.Ooh yeah, he loved seeing some of those dosed old folks put on surprising shows of strength like that.Also, liked seeing them take blows to the head.Blows to their chests, thumps on their backs, grappling hands.
Then, like a storm, the pub-sized rumble was wearing itself out.Storms were the result of expending accumulated water vapor—expended from the clouds.Clouds became heavy and poured.Likewise, the pub-sized rumble-riot was the result of accumulated emotion.Though this was more an artificial rainstorm.
“Almost over, Gasford!’ shouted Elio above the fighting din.Then, the caped madman of a mayor saw one last old woman struck one last-standing old man on the jaw, and the last-standing old man went down.Overbalanced from the punch, that old woman went down and collapsed onto the blunt remains of wooden chair legs and smashed tables.Exhaustion knocked her out.Other fallen old people formed cushions for much-needed rest for those two.
Indeed it was over.The newly quiet place was, like, leveled.Elio’s amused brown eyes roamed over the fallen and sprawled old people.They had arms out and splayed.Legs were all over the place.Feet were on faces, hands on backs.Chests on remains of plenty of furniture.Indeed, a look of oblivion.
Elio pivoted around atop the bar, looking down at the hunkered-down bartender.“Hey down there!” he said.“It’s over.They’ve got it all out of their system.” The bartender was not at all comforted—a look of open-eyed dejection on his big face.“Don’t feel ready to worry,” added Elio.“Hospital personnel will be by to inject them with all sorts of medical goodies to make the hurt feel good and fix all the broken bones.”
The bartender could not stand.He stayed huddled down there, looking up at the caped man atop the bar—that man so casually dressed and with an attitude to match.He opened his mouth, trying to say, Why?
Elio smiled.“Didn’t I tell to say to you not to worry?Ain’t like this totally never passed before.Well, not at this particular pub.But at other pubs.”He shrugged.“I have to keep the townspeople amused somehow, right?”That said, Elio brought up his cape, brought it before himself.There was an indoor swish of breeze, and then he was gone.
Minutes later, green-clad professionals came by from the hospital—came by way of several green ambulances.And the nurses and paramedics came into Timult’s Pub.Look at this.All of those elderly citizens downed by their own fists and feet.That the old people had that much temporary energy and tenacity, enough to have such a barfight, could only mean that the mayor was at it again.
And as the hospital personnel cleared out the injured citizens, the reek of alcohol and some other things in the air, Ganglanders came by.The Ganglanders were here to remove broken furniture and help move in replacements:chairs, tables, stands, stools, the like.
This would cost the pub ownership nothing, really.Payment for mayoral mayhem all came out of the mayor’s treasury.In fact, Elio would give the pub ownership a thirty percent profit.Over-insurance, it was.
In hours, the pub was fully repaired.But even after the chaos was cleaned, and the pub was looking better-than-knew by nighfall, there was still the lingering rememberance that the mayor deliberatly pulled random pranks like that—just to keep the people wary of his political power.That was true, as sure as there was now a gray-coated sky that covered the days.