Vending Machine Lunch (2 page)

“Well, since I
don't have a calendar father, I am unable to say.”

“You ever heard
of the word innovation boy?” mocked his father, shuffling the tie
to the top of his tubey neck, “You should create your own calendar
system. I did.”

“I kind of
have. I just lose track of it some days,” said James, looking down
at the mosaic floor, “Also I read a book and it said something
about months being irregular.”

“Oh shush, you
bore the hell out of me. How do I look?”

“Very well
father.”

“I meant, does
orange suit me?”

“Very well
father.”

James's father
stooped down to have a look at his reflection in one of the
screens.

“Hmmm, yeah,
very good,” he said, spinning round quickly, “I think I suit orange
actually. Never thought I would, I've been putting off this tie for
years.”

“Father,” said
James, attempting to find some sort of morality in the white glass,
“What can I do you for? Why was I requested to wake you?”

“Ah, yeah, it's
six isn't it?” looking at a watch on his wrist, “Nearly quarter
past actually. Come along Jonathan, it's nearly time.”

“James. And
time for what?”

“Time for you
to see the outdoor land.”

Ignorance Is Bliss Until They Take Your Bliss
Away.

The crowd roared under
the large balcony at the side of the large stone building, which
was soon to be used as a podium. Placards and protest signs jeered
at the empty balcony, as the sun set behind the crowd from a
cloudless sky. The public were angry, and the leader was set to
make what the crowd hoped was going to be an inspiring and problem
resolving speech.

Partway down
the packed street, in one of the many towering blocks of buildings,
Jonathan pulled his binoculars away from his eyes. Behind him, in a
whitewash room, Jimmy was cleaning what looked like a spyglass with
a yellow rag.

“That's a lot
of upset people,” said Jonathan, stroking the moustache that
crowned his upper lip and looking out to the amass of angry people,
“We're gonna have our work cut out here.”

“Nothing can
outsmart Jertha. Nothing.” smirked Jimmy, caressing the spyglass,
“How long until the old fool gets on stage?”

Jonathan pulled
out a pocket watch and flicked it open, “Ten. The speech supposedly
starts at six.”

“Six? What is
his obsession with that number?”

“No idea,” said
Jonathan, spinning around on the wooden stool he was sat on,
“Rumour has it he gets up at six in the morning and everything. I
personally think it's a shame there is no number Ninety-Nine on the
clock.”

Jimmy laughed,
polishing the lens, “What do you think the old misery is going to
say then? Deny all knowledge of Deimos?”

“Don't think
he'll be that ignorant,” replied Jonathan, “To be fair, Deimos
isn't really his fault. For once. Just happened on his watch.”

“Which never
seems to end,” grumbled Jimmy, “Did you hear how much damage the
cascade caused? Wiped out an entire hospital in the area.”

“Could have
been worse, it almost took out the factory.”

“True. Rumour
has it that he has had another operation. Another extension. Wasn’t
one enough?”

“Apparently
not.”

“I think it's
clear he is unwilling to accept nature has a plan for him and he
will have to give up the power someday. Life extending operations
after the longest reign in history? He is still power thirsty. I'm
tempted to do everyone a favour and kill him myself,” said Jimmy,
slotting the spyglass into a large sniper rifle he just picked up
from the floor.

There was an
oppressive pause as Jonathan started at Jimmy stroking his weapon
like it was his lover.

“You are joking
right?” asked Jonathan, not too sure about what Jimmy had just
said.

Jimmy snorted
with laughter, “Of course I am. I don't think anyone is dumb enough
to kill the maniac despite all the bad happenings. I'd welcome
someone to try, naturally though,” he tapped the sniper rifle with
his spare hand, “Jertha will certainly take care of them.”

“You think
things will be better without him?”

“No idea.
Things will certainly be different. Change inspires hope. Our
land's father has no inspiration. Even if the speech promises
change, I doubt anything will,” said Jimmy, picking up his rag
again and polishing his weapon's body.

“Why don't you
do it then?”

“Do what?”
asked Jimmy, looking up from his polishing, “Kill him? Ha, I have a
family to look after. Whoever does it, their life is pretty much
ruined. State law alone makes them dead. I'm just doing my job
here, doesn't mean I agree with it. Loved ones are my first
priority. I thought you were against the idea anyway.”

“Me? No way,
whoever wishes to give it a try they can be my guest,” said
Jonathan grasping his binoculars again, “Just not on my watch,
naturally. I just didn't want to be tied in with it if you were
serious about it. As you said, I have a family to protect.”

Jimmy chuckled
and placed the rifle down on the wooden table in front of him.
“What's the time now?”

Jonathan
flicked open his pocket watch again. He scratched his stubbly chin.
“Six left ‘till six. Reckon we should do a sweep?”

“Better safe
than sorry,” said Jimmy, standing up and picking up his rifle.

Jonathan spun
around on his stool and began spying on the crowd with his
binoculars again. Jimmy dragged his stool to a second window, put
it between his legs and sat down, priming his rifle.

“You'd better
be as good a spotter as everyone claims you are back at
Highfields,” said Jimmy, pulling a marker pen from his pocket.

“Yeah. And
you'd better be a good a shooter as everyone claims you are back at
Highfields,” said Jonathan, still engrossed in his binocular
lenses.

Jimmy smiled
and drew a cross-hair with the pen on the lens of his spyglass,
before getting the oddly named weapon into position and looking
down his improvised scope.

“Make contact
with A,” said Jimmy, sweeping his cross-hair over many moving
protesting signs and people, “Fourth floor, windows ten and eleven
from their right apparently.”

“Yeah, if that
pair of morons actually made it to the right location-” he said,
following Jimmy's co-ordinates through his binoculars, “-oh- nope,
I take it back. They've made it. Establishing contact.”

Jonathan let go
of the binoculars with one hand and formed an O out of his pointing
finger and his thumb, leaving the remaining fingers held
upright.

“...” said
Jimmy, looking at Jonathan and waiting to confirm contact.

“Bleeding
morons are too busy yammering on,” cursed Jonathan, “-oh- nope.
Contact made,” he returned both hands to the binoculars and scanned
the windows on the building opposite.

“Out of all the
places to have a speech,” moaned Jimmy, “And it has to be the place
where there are the most windows.”

“Bleeding
narrow street n'all isn't it?” said Jonathan, “One to go.”

“God damn, the
sun will have set by the time he's out, then we will be in
trouble.”

A minute
quickly passed, the chanting, jeering, noisy crowd all shouting
their prose. The sun was close to being fully set, already, half of
the vast orange sphere casting its final rays of light onto the
balcony and the angry public.

The noise
intensified as a man in a suit appeared onto the balcony, only to
attach a battered looking microphone to the wooden podium on the
balcony and go back in. Almost instantly two flags dropped,
covering the windows leading inside from the balcony. They were
both the same, the land's flag, displaying the bold sparrow of
independence symbolising the honour and freedom of the land they
lived in and the green background representing the mature earth
they stood upon, with a promise of safety and happiness on the
land.

“Despite the
datedness of the message, I will always love that flag,” muttered
Jonathan.

“Why's that?”
asked Jimmy. Both of them, still focused on their lenses as they
talked.

“It's just so
damn cool. The meaning of it isn't relevant anymore as I'm sure
you'll agree, however, the design is just badass.”

“Ha, yeah. I'm
catching what you're chucking. Our ground has not the faintest bit
of maturity left in it, it's just concrete. Natural resources are a
thing of the past I reckon.”

“Oh, I dunno,”
said Jonathan suggestively, “I heard some guy up north claims to
have found a well-stocked mine on his land.”

“His land?
No-one has land in this day and age, no matter what they think,”
said Jimmy bitterly, “His lordship expected out there any moment
from now can take any bit he likes. Let's just see how long it
takes before this apparent 'well stocked mine' is claimed by him
and milked dry and used on something un-resourceful.”

“Good point.
And his lordship as you put it appears to be late,” said Jonathan,
glancing at the open hand watch on the window sill, “Two past
six.”

“He's bound to
come though,” said Jimmy, removing his eye from the scope
“Microphones and flags. He'll just be recharging his new extension
or whatever he does in his spare time.”

Jonathan
observed the angry crowd through his eye extenders. Jimmy began
drumming his fingers on the window sill.

“Anything from
A? We could have a visual in this building.”

“No, nothing,”
replied Jonathan, “Hey, look at that sign.”

“Which one?”
asked Jimmy, peering back into his scope.

“Eleven. Black.
Some young group of youths, the holder female wearing a red
scarf.”

Jimmy found the
protest sign Jonathan was talking about. It was black as he had
stated, and simply contained the line:

Copland has won.

“See it?”

“Yeah.”

“What a dumb
sign. What the bleeding hell is that meant to mean?”

“Well it's an
old legend isn't it-”

Jimmy was cut
off by an increase in volume from the raging protesters. He had
arrived.

“Good grief,”
exclaimed Jimmy, before resuming his aim upon windows of buildings,
“They weren’t lying when they said his new extension made him look
like a robot.”

“What is that?”
asked Jonathan, quickly glancing at the man before the podium, “It
looks like some fangled gas mask.”

Jimmy managed
to squeeze in the words “God knows” before the speech started.

The guy before
the podium raised his hands for silence. He looked perfectly
normal, except for his face, which appeared to be fused on by some
bizarre gas mask of some sort, which had a mouth piece that pumped
in and out as he breathed. Probably a device to aid his breathing.
Below his neck, his shoulder blades were covered by some sort of
metal covering, which was covered by nuts, assumedly attached to
bolts. The rest of his body looked fine, a rather tall man with a
suit, and rather oddly, a white tie which appeared to reflect the
orangey light of the setting sun. The orange suited him, although,
it was clear that he wanted to wear a white tie for that day.

The protesters
settled, waiting for him to begin.

“Citizens of
the land, hear my word,” he started, a slight bit of feedback
pushing him away from the microphone for a moment, “There has been
a hell of a lot of hullabaloo recently, about the disaster in
Deimos. It has certainly recently been the favourite topic of the
press and no doubt, you guys, the citizens, the heart of our large
community, have opinions on it yourself that you'd clearly like to
voice.

“But to start
off, I'd like to say that we are not perfect. We are not perfect.
We try our best with what we have, which in this day and age as you
all know, can be very little. But we are not perfect and we cannot
guarantee everything we do will go smoothly. Second of all, Deimos
wasn't perfect either. We all know that now, but Deimos and its
sister facility, Phobos were never guaranteed to be perfect.

“To continue,
let me voice our opinions, and my opinion as leader of this great
land. The press, and quite a lot of you attacked us for not 'being
prepared' for Deimos, and not 'doing enough' when it happened. And
then further attacked us for not responding to the press's inane
questions when the disaster was well in the public limelight.
Conspiracy’s, complaints, so called ‘Requiem’ and rumours have been
flying around these past two months, so much so, that public
confidence of us has been lost and you have evidently, taken to the
streets for answers. And this has all since been dubbed
'Deimosgate.'

“This hurt us.
This, blatant attack from the press hurt us deep. I admit, because
we are being totally transparent here, that we did not expect the
disaster at Deimos. We did not expect it. I don't think anyone
expected it. But to say that we did nothing in response is a total
joke. A lie. Just because we didn't head out there and personally
help a few people out of the rubble, like a showoffy organisation
would do, like the press did; it doesn't mean we did nothing in
response. We don't credit knee-jerk reactions. And all the press
offered was a full on knee-jerk of insane theories and showoffy
coverage showing 'how much they've done, shouldn't the leaders be
doing this?' Don't get me wrong, you all have a right to question
what we do, and I am going to tell you exactly what we've done in
response to this disaster.

“Instead of
responding like the press did with useless knee-jerk, we decided
that taking a step back in this scenario was the best thing to do.
Sometimes to see a full work of art, you need to step back, and
this was certainly the case. The reason we didn't just dive in was
because we were very sceptical about what had just happened. To
solve things in the long run, we needed to step back and
investigate, and that is exactly what we did. I wish we could have
done this within the first six hours, but then the press wouldn't
have had so much to write about.