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Authors: Jeremy Robert Johnson
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secured office.
Martin S. Peppermill was still a figment of my imagination, of course, but he now had an ATM card tied to his MK-Oil account and a very official looking passport and driver’s license courtesy of a friend of Port and Egbert. It had taken a series of multi-city ATM runs to put together the document acquisition cash, but I was able to perform much larger transactions with the I.D. I researched MK-Oil’s files and knew enough about the business and its higher-ups to run a B.S. session with a bank manager if they came over for a chat. I had one suit nice enough to sell the role.
Port and Egbert got their twenty large. They used some of that cash to grease their superiors and allow greater Hex flow in my direction. And they even gave me back my bear spray, which I decided to carry at all times.
I knew my clock was ticking—quarter end at the bank was approaching and now I’d made dents in the Foreign Transit Comp GL which couldn’t be ignored at reconciliation. The only choice at this point was to go balls out. If I slowed down I might start thinking about the choices I’d made and face the deep panic that was surely waiting for me. No, my mission timer was a fast-burning fuse and sleep was a luxury I’d have to trade for glory.
Two pills at a time now, too many times a day to track. I imagined my cognitive function running like a supercomputer. I pretended that this reallocation of mental prowess was where the blackouts were coming from. If brilliantly mapping the collusion between my bank and Delta meant that I periodically lost things like, say, conscious perception and memory, then that was just the cost of my newfound nobility.
Pain and gain. Guts and glory. Balancing the scales of justice. Icarus flew too close to the sun, but at least he flew. It became easier to think in loops of cliché than acknowledge the reality I’d created. Doom isn’t really something you want to focus on.
I guess I should have paid more attention to the persistent dreams (which came during the day, and from which I have no recollection of waking): A black wolf watches me in the deep woods, waits for me to collapse, and doesn’t even tear out my throat before he starts to gnaw on my skull.
I guess I should have spent less time worrying about invisible data receptors, and instead watched for the man in the green car who’d been paid to solve a problem.
I guess I should have realized that no matter what kind of conspiracy I could dream up for Delta MedWorks, the truth would be far worse. My mind was simply too moral to invent what they were capable of doing.
I did none of those things, not that I can remember. I’m not sure exactly what happened in my final days as a banker. It was definitely when I discovered how easy it is to end up with blood on your hands.
Even Hindsight looks back at this stretch of my life as a black hole, a spinning tangle of “What the fuck?” collapse which began the end of our world.
Here’s what I remember…
The bleach on the kitchen linoleum turned my hair yellow green on the left side. I’d passed out in a puddle, my body honoring the periodic rest demands I tried to refuse. Clorox was the only product I used for my daily housecleaning anymore. I vented via my windows, to ensure the fumes weren’t too much for Deckard, but I must have gassed myself beyond brain function. The skin on that side of my scalp blistered; the yellow green hair wouldn’t be attached to my head for long. My Martin S. Peppermill runs now required a gauze patch and a fedora.
I was snarling in my office. Was it the wolf dream again? How long had I been snarling? Delores, sitting in the cubicle closest to my office, was speaking to a man I didn’t recognize. Pointing. Whispering. The man nodded in a comforting way. “Yes, ma’am. We’re aware of the problem. It will be dealt with.” I didn’t come out of my office for free pizza that day. I didn’t want to accidentally hear what I
Martin S. Peppermill was still a figment of my imagination, of course, but he now had an ATM card tied to his MK-Oil account and a very official looking passport and driver’s license courtesy of a friend of Port and Egbert. It had taken a series of multi-city ATM runs to put together the document acquisition cash, but I was able to perform much larger transactions with the I.D. I researched MK-Oil’s files and knew enough about the business and its higher-ups to run a B.S. session with a bank manager if they came over for a chat. I had one suit nice enough to sell the role.
Port and Egbert got their twenty large. They used some of that cash to grease their superiors and allow greater Hex flow in my direction. And they even gave me back my bear spray, which I decided to carry at all times.
I knew my clock was ticking—quarter end at the bank was approaching and now I’d made dents in the Foreign Transit Comp GL which couldn’t be ignored at reconciliation. The only choice at this point was to go balls out. If I slowed down I might start thinking about the choices I’d made and face the deep panic that was surely waiting for me. No, my mission timer was a fast-burning fuse and sleep was a luxury I’d have to trade for glory.
Two pills at a time now, too many times a day to track. I imagined my cognitive function running like a supercomputer. I pretended that this reallocation of mental prowess was where the blackouts were coming from. If brilliantly mapping the collusion between my bank and Delta meant that I periodically lost things like, say, conscious perception and memory, then that was just the cost of my newfound nobility.
Pain and gain. Guts and glory. Balancing the scales of justice. Icarus flew too close to the sun, but at least he flew. It became easier to think in loops of cliché than acknowledge the reality I’d created. Doom isn’t really something you want to focus on.
I guess I should have paid more attention to the persistent dreams (which came during the day, and from which I have no recollection of waking): A black wolf watches me in the deep woods, waits for me to collapse, and doesn’t even tear out my throat before he starts to gnaw on my skull.
I guess I should have spent less time worrying about invisible data receptors, and instead watched for the man in the green car who’d been paid to solve a problem.
I guess I should have realized that no matter what kind of conspiracy I could dream up for Delta MedWorks, the truth would be far worse. My mind was simply too moral to invent what they were capable of doing.
I did none of those things, not that I can remember. I’m not sure exactly what happened in my final days as a banker. It was definitely when I discovered how easy it is to end up with blood on your hands.
Even Hindsight looks back at this stretch of my life as a black hole, a spinning tangle of “What the fuck?” collapse which began the end of our world.
Here’s what I remember…
The bleach on the kitchen linoleum turned my hair yellow green on the left side. I’d passed out in a puddle, my body honoring the periodic rest demands I tried to refuse. Clorox was the only product I used for my daily housecleaning anymore. I vented via my windows, to ensure the fumes weren’t too much for Deckard, but I must have gassed myself beyond brain function. The skin on that side of my scalp blistered; the yellow green hair wouldn’t be attached to my head for long. My Martin S. Peppermill runs now required a gauze patch and a fedora.
I was snarling in my office. Was it the wolf dream again? How long had I been snarling? Delores, sitting in the cubicle closest to my office, was speaking to a man I didn’t recognize. Pointing. Whispering. The man nodded in a comforting way. “Yes, ma’am. We’re aware of the problem. It will be dealt with.” I didn’t come out of my office for free pizza that day. I didn’t want to accidentally hear what I
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