#near-future

After all, what could be more compelling to a general audience than a disfigured corpse, of what was presumably a man, with his skull so caved in, it had painted a spiked halo of dark red blood where there once used to be a head and a face. If only he could have died whilst holding up a “V for victory”, so that the iconography of it would single-handedly provoke a stencilled mural be drawn in its place in two week’s time. The words “gruesome scene” basically wrote themselves on the collective phone screen of every journalist from the seventeen rival TV stations present on the scene, all trying to spin some different angle for what was just simple, cold, bloody murder.

No one really wanted to be there, mostly because it was tough work in even rougher conditions, or maybe because it was just work. Terrible weather, and the only coffee nearby came out of an ancient vending machine, which was barely pretending to hold off on the sugar, when you’d press the button for none. It was enough of a mess that it would handily occupy them for the rest of the day, which most seemed to take in stride, as well as anyone could a free paycheque, anyway. No moving parts or reasonable doubt to be had either – just “We’re currently investigating.” and “You’ll be the first to know, when we know.” License to make shit up, and hope that further developments would end up proving you right, and the guys over at CTV wrong. It was the kind of gamble, where no one would end up being the loser, since most stations would end up reposting each other’s work by the end of the first week, with their readers and viewers becoming about as half as interested by week two. Though, most of these young urban professionals were morbidly hoping that there’d be some other gruesome scene to write about by that point.

Everyone would race to be the first to publish, but in this day and age it wouldn’t amount to nothing more than forcing your colleagues into the choke-hold of having to cite you as the guys that pressed “Publish” seventeen milliseconds earlier, because the intern had a momentary tremor. The average consumer of said news couldn’t give any less of a shit who broke it first, since those articles would be sandwiched in between a photo of a scantly clad girl, advertising her private page, and this week’s hottest meme of a chipmunk struggling to swallow an overly large nut.

Ivy wasn’t really in the head-space to have much of a reaction to anything, since anyone who’d spend any time living in The Capital would know this is just about par for the course in this town. All she could think about is how the rain would scare off all the clientele, and there’d be nothing to do but shuffle boxes from lower to higher shelves all day. No reason to take the headphones in her ears out either. Another day wasted before it had even started.

She’d stand there, eavesdropping on the conversations the people unrolling police tape would bark at each other for several minutes at a time before looking back down at her feet and thinking to herself when someone would notice the tooth sitting on the ground right in front of her – some kind of molar. A dentist would probably know, she’d think to herself, as if affirming to anyone listening in on her thoughts, that she didn’t really need to know. Several police officers would almost step on it, which would surely reveal its existence or instantly destroy it, but no such luck. She’d smirk to herself one last time, before stepping away from it and through the door behind her, into a store-front labelled “Oddities” – her place of work.

…

There are only two things really worth mentioning about that place:

One was immediately apparent – it sold antiques. Old, musty, and as far as anyone could tell without going in – probably expensive. While partially true, the real nature of it was something closer to a boutique, which had at some point over the years failed, and then forcibly diversified in various—if not too many—directions, in a desperate attempt to keep the lights on.

The second was its proprietor – a man, known to his acquaintances, and unknown to just about everyone else. A rather unpleasant to be around—by anyone’s guess—sixty-something year old man, who had, so far, blissfully coasted through life, in a state of perpetual melancholia. It was the kind of thing you’d immediately sense radiating off of him, if you ever got to meet him in-person. It’s what ultimately must have earned him the nickname “Eyes”. The only thing that really betrayed that caricature was the way he’d loom over people in stature, broad shoulders and all. That and you couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite it all, he was never really unhappy. There’d be this air of dignity about him, which no one ever seemed to really question or deny about him. Maybe it was the way he’d handle himself, or maybe it was just his age, finally growing to suit him. At least, that’s what Ivy would say, whenever someone asked.

Gonna be another slow day, huh Ivy? How was your date?

The asshole never showed up. Stood me up like some dumb bitch, that doesn’t know better.

That’s a shame. . . I’m guessing you have him an earful?

He’s been ghosting me ever since. He should probably keep at it, if he knows what’s good for him!

‘Attagirl. You deserve better. You just let me know if you need anything, alright?

He’d run Oddities with an iron fist – a fact that would become apparent the second any unseasoned clientele managed to somehow find his shop, and naively think to enter it without proper defensive countermeasures.

The ideal customer was one who would enter, give a polite, yet short greeting, and would then proceed to browse through the shelves and the displays in complete and utter, deeply contemplative silence, for at least ten to fifteen minutes. Only after, would they be capable of asking, or be offered, any help. This “help” would usually consist of a couple of leading questions, with which he would internally gauge the client’s level of familiarity. If the client “had a pulse”, as he liked to put it, the conversation would be brief, and it would result in a guaranteed purchase within the next minute. If no such vital signs were found, and he was able to diagnose the cause of brain death sufficiently quickly, there was about a fifty-fifty chance they’d walk away with something, which he’d deem sufficiently expensive and profitable enough to justify having gotten up from his chair. Whether or not they had come in with the intention of leaving with said thing was seen as irrelevant, and/or their mistake.

Anyone that acted outside of the “mandatory browsing period”, was booted out kicking and screaming.

As you might imagine, this didn’t really fall under what some would consider conventional business savvy, but to him that never was the point to begin with. To him, this mercantile venture was an exercise in providing a service to the public. A service that no one was explicitly begging for, but was provided nonetheless.

I’ll be alright. I just don’t know why you even bothered opening up today. They’re not going to be done with that mess outside anytime soon.

Who knows, one of those journos might make a mistake and take a picture of the wrong wall. Have to look our best.

The one without the corpse with the blown off head?

They don’t know that. Their bosses probably just told them to go to this address and take pictures. I don’t think most of them can even perceive the corpse as something out of the ordinary. Besides, there’s a tooth rolling around out there they still haven’t noticed.

Oddities was Eyes’ personal crusade against the tides of mindless consumerism, brought on by nearly thirty years of attempts to establish a democracy, modelled after other capitalist countries. This was only his excuse to try and shape the unwilling masses; to turn them from a horde of grossly disinterested individuals, preoccupied with the turmoil of daily and/or biological life, to more full-bodied and well-rounded people, with at least one niche interest. It wasn’t so much an antiques shop, as it was a re-education centre. Ivy also liked to add that it was a place that forced upon people an intense kind of concentration, to make a really blunt kind of point.

She had worked there ever since she was almost done with high-school. The pay couldn’t have been particularly good, but as the sole employee of the establishment, she had a certain kind of irreplaceable autonomy. Though, everything seemed to indicate that she’d still stick around, even if that wasn’t the case. Something about all those carefree workdays, where there wouldn’t be a single person setting foot through those doors. She didn’t really see it as a job, as much as it was a place to hang out for a couple of hours and still earn a paycheque at the end of the month. Enough to cover a small one-room apartment, food, decent internet, and her tuition, anyway.

Though, the idea of giving money to that front of an institution they’d call a university seemed to irk her a bit. She had gotten roped into doing it, after her relatives had twisted her arm into getting a higher education. For her future, they’d say. Obviously they meant something like pursuing law, medicine, or architecture, but she thought the humanities would have to suffice. She’d never really talk about it, but made sure anyone concerned about the topic could rest assure, that whatever she’d come out the other end with would result in no prospects whatsoever.

Saw that too, eh? That’s next week’s shocking revelation, I bet. Also what… are you telling me none of those piggies wanna come in and look for some new curtains? No questions?

Yeah pretty much every single one of them came in, asking the same questions – efficient communication, they call it. I’m pretty sure half of them went out with the conclusion that I was the one who did it.

Well. . . you might’ve. There’s enough antique weapons in this building to arm a small army. Who’s to say you haven’t grown restless at your age and started lashing out?

Most days, she’d lounge around the shop on one of the many beaten-up sofas, which to her seemed to have been on display and available for purchase for at least the last thirty years. Clearly no takers.

Every once in a while, she’d get up and turn on one of several import high-end Hi-fi systems, on which she would play one of the many records Eyes had stashed away for discerning clientele.

Eyes would be over in the corner by the entrance, where he had set up his workbench all those aeons ago, when Oddities first opened. He’d say it was the best lit part of the shop, which would highlight the fact that he is, in fact, the most important article enclosed in these here four walls. He’d usually smirk to himself while saying that. In reality, his eyesight was getting worse, and the corner window gave him just enough light to not have to turn on a desk lamp all the time. He’d usually spend his days digging around the guts of some old, broken radio. Never seemed to know how to get it to work, though.

You’d feel very lucky then, wouldn’t ya? The beheading – sure; but that’s a high velocity impact splatter repainting that wall. Curious thing is, that there’s not even a single sign of gunfire anywhere around that body. Whoever hit that guy turned him into mist, and didn’t even use a gun. It’s sure to stump forensics for a while, if it ever reaches them, that is.

Definitely not going to burn this week’s guess on you being a gardener. I dunno. It just looks like some dead rich kid to me. Mummy and daddy’s silver spoon couldn’t bail him out of this mess, I guess.

Behind Eyes, would be a large modular bookshelf, which only housed books in the compartments that were physically out of his reach. Over the years, he had replaced anything within arms length for some kind of junk, he found essential to the upkeep of the shop – wire strippers, 12 gauge wire, planks of wood, cast iron pans, scrap electronics, technical manuals, coffee cups, depleted uranium rods – you name it. This was a man, who self-admittedly refused to understand the concepts of organisation and cleanliness, as he thrived in “the kind of chaos only he could make”. This was also part of the philosophy, which resulted in the glorified intimidation tactic that was hanging a quick-release sixteenth-century executioner’s sword off of chains from the ceiling, right above where he’d be sitting all day. Essential, he’d call it.

Ivy simply didn’t believe that it would have much of an effect on anyone, especially if someone were to be so inclined as to break in and try to steal, what was, to her, an assortment of mostly dust and worthless junk, no one saw value in, anyway.

What added to the intimidation factor were the dried flecks of blood, which covered part of the lower edge. The usual story would bluntly imply they were from the last client who misbehaved, or maybe the last intruder who thought they were going to get out alive, but Ivy knew that there was an equally funny story of someone getting up too quick from their desk one too many times.

Regardless, Eyes was unshakable in his convictions, and it seemed to fit in with his rather morbid sense of humour.

Who knows! That kid is going to end up having one hell of a swan song.

What do you mean?

Well… someone already took the money out of his pocket, so he’s at least gonna buy someone a good evening out. Suit is going to get ripped off him, cleaned up, and appear in someone’s wedding photo two weeks from now. Probably lived somewhere too, which means that there’s a free condo to crash in. . . at least until rent is due. And whatever ID he might have had on him is now someone’s blank slate to get out of this shithole, carte blanche. At the end of the day, this guy has done more for the citizens of this town than most. What’s left of him was committed to the city, regardless if he ever was.

You been thinking that one up the whole day, haven’t you? That’s a real fucked up way of looking at it, Eyes.

Ivy would grimace at the thought, but she knew that it probably wasn’t too far off from the truth. All it took was one look out through the window. The tooth – still just laying there on the wet concrete. Another footstep passing by it for yet another near miss.

Whatever he was running away from just caught up to him. Probably never even noticed. He got what was coming to him.

Eyes would look up from his little project and give the scene outside another once-over.

Everyone does. . . eventually.

The rain would patter against the glass, slightly eroding away the old, faded lettering on them. Another uneventful day in The Capital.