thomas violence

The International Court of Climate Justice will be armed with improvised weapons. They will carry rusty machetes, fashioned from twisted sections of I-beam, grips wrapped in soft plastic and electrical tape. They will hold in their hands spears made from broom handles and broken glass bottles as they pass judgments from the top of cracked, crooked multi-level parking lots.

They will cut paths across a changed landscape with outdated cartography, clutching faded printouts from Google Maps that fail to reflect where water has come, where water has gone, and where it has removed roads in the course of those processes. They will stay in the lee of the terrain when storms come and stay in the shadows as much as they can when the storms go. They will eat mostly carbohydrates, made from the tenacious superstrains of wheat that cling to life in soil devoid of nutrients and bare of moisture — hardy stalks engineered to be resilient and adaptive and to mature quickly and to propagate even faster. They will pass little other plant or animal life.

They will have lists, scribbled with notes. Rumours. Tips. Vague recollections. Landmarks. The International Court of Climate Justice will hogtie octogenarian former employees of Shell and Exxon and Chevron and BHP Billiton. Executives who commissioned reports into climate trends and ignored them, kept them secret. Marketers and lobbyists who spun and misdirected and winked and smiled and put money in the right hands. Politicians who absorbed the interests of these companies into their ideologies will kneel helpless before the Court, breathing short and shallow breaths through hessian hoods that smell like rust.

They will hunt them down. From the basements of abandoned supermarkets and in storm shelters and in caves and in old missile silos converted to complexes that are somewhere between apartments and doomsday bunkers, they will drag out once millionaires and once billionaires. CEOs and spokespeople and authors and television hosts. The memory of the International Court of Climate Justice is long for denialists and those that equivocated.

Well this is just fucking typical. Handsome Makim comes up with a new system of counting and everyone loves it. I come up with a new system of counting and I am treated the same way that Urlk was when he had too much fermented grain paste and broke all of the pottery in the storehouse.

So we’re sitting around the fire, eating some goat and some bread and talking about how good cultivating crops is when Makim clears his throat.  

“So, I’ve had an idea,” he says in his aggressively charismatic way. “About numbers.”

I’m not rude. I’m not an asshole. I place the bit of goat I’m working on back into my earthenware bowl (which I made myself, by the way) and listen attentively. I’ll admit, the idea is not terrible.

“So, you know how we count things and we have a word for all the numbers of things there are until it gets to too many and then we run out of words?” We all nod, somewhat sceptical of where this is going but, at the same time, all too familiar with what happens if you need to keep going after you reach sklebin. “Well, what if when you got to too many numbers you added a word and then started again?”

If anyone other than handsome Makim had said this, we would have laughed and gone straight back to shooting the shit about sedentary agriculture and how cool having a permanent supply of food is.

“So it would go like this, I think. You go one. Then two. Then three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.” So far, pretty routine, but there’s a twist: “Then you go ten-and-one. Ten-and-two. Ten-and-three. Ten-and-four. And so on.”

“What happens when you get to ten-and-ten?” asks Urlk, speaking up with a surprising amount of confidence for someone who not so recently broke all of the pottery in the storehouse.

“Urlk, I am so glad you asked,” Makim replies. “After ten-and-nine is two-of-ten. After that is two-of-ten-and-one”

A hushed silence falls over us. Even old Yuhe, who talks to herself and laughs for no reason, briefly suspends aggressively poking the hot coals with a stick to listen. This is impressive stuff. The implications are nothing short of staggering.

Now, I’m not trying to say Makim’s idea is bad. It’s great. I love it. I’ll be the first to admit that I am thrilled at the prospect of being able to count higher than sklebin. Everyone should keep in mind that I banged the leg bone of a goat against one of the sitting logs in excitement just as much as everyone else did.

I just think it could be improved, and I say this in, frankly, the politest terms possible.

“Makim,” I say. “Handsome Makim, the most upright person in all of the settlement.” Appreciative nods of agreement pass around the fire circle. “I love this. I really do. Numbers bigger than sklebin! What a concept!”

Makim smiles, patiently and handsomely, like a complete creep.

“I was just thinking that, maybe, instead of the big number being ten, it could be, uh, nine.”

I see a lot of looks of confusion. All of the excitement whipped up just because Makim may have revolutionised our system of counting and also happens to have a largely hairless upper face has abated with a speed that I find confusing and, honestly, a little hurtful.

“So, uh. You know. Seven. Eight. Nine. Nine-and-one. Nine-and-two. And so on.”

Handsome Makim, who thinks that his idea is so perfect that there’s no way anyone else could improve upon it, looks at me with the sort of disgusting, charitable tolerance that makes me want to throw up some goat straight into my earthenware bowl.

“Oh, uh,” Makim says, smiling beatifically, like a fuckhead would. “Well I– I guess we could, you know, have a play around with it.”

Those are the words that his mouth says but his eyes tell a different story. A story about how good the number ten is, and how we should use it to underpin a positional counting system, and how he is the sexiest genius in all of the plains for coming up with it.

At this point I’m getting stares from everyone, just for having different ideas. Even A’at, who is over sklebin years old and still doesn’t know how to weave a net properly, is looking at me like I suggested we should start throwing spears with the not-pointy end first.

“But… why?” Asks A’at. “Ten is a good number. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Handsome Makim’s idea just feels right.”

Handsome Makim looks at A’at in his characteristic fashion, warmly and gratefully, but without any hint of being insincerely obsequious. The absolute bastard. Everyone is nodding, like I’m some sort of prick for having my own feelings on an issue.

“Well, yes,” I say. “Yes, I can see that argument. I can see how you would arrive at that idea, at first. But that doesn’t mean we can’t refine it.

“You might like the sound of ten as the big number — just as beautiful, strong, handsome Makim suggests — because it comes very naturally to us and is a very visible part of our body. Sure. But what’s so good about counting to ten?

“You know what I like? Counting to nine. Much easier to count to. I’m already a bit tired by the time I get to eight!”

For a second I think that maybe Chiwe might have nodded in agreement with me but he was simply trying to dislodge a moth that had worked its way into his face hair. Otherwise I am met with the complete stillness and silence usually seen in prey animals about to ambush food animals.

“Maybe we can put it to a vote,” Makim says. “Would that be constructive?”

Oh ho. Very generous of you, handsome Makim. Sure, let’s put it to the group of simpleton settlement dwellers who are starstruck by your incredible posture and unobtrusive forehead bone. That’s very fair. Hell, why not just decide based on a handsomeness contest. Why not do that.

In the interest of being the bigger person, I go along with it. We put it to a vote. With the exception of one abstention, everyone votes in favour of Makim’s idea, and the abstention is only because Yuhe doesn’t understand what we are doing. Cool. Great.

Well done, handsome Makim. I hope this makes you feel good. We could have been the most advanced settlement on the plains, with a visionary nine-based counting system but, no, you had to set us back, all because of your gorgeous eyes and powerful calves.

At first, you experience the universe as a hum. You do not know when you began to experience it, you are barely even aware that you are experiencing it. The hum is constant.

When you are pushed forth into the world, the hum shifts, gaining peaks and troughs. The hum becomes a series of waves. Still wet and scrabbling for mental purchase, you experience the world around you not as a collection of discrete objects, but as bursts of frenetic sensory overload punctuated with lulls of silence.

The waves soon become points. If your hands were strong enough to hold a pencil, you could plot the universe spatially, with you at the centre. Around this centre there are points of energy, each with its own magnitude. If your hands were strong enough and you didn’t have much on, you could plot these points over time, moving and changing in magnitude, winking in and out of existence.

After a time, you begin to recognise the points. Some points are red. Some points are loud. Some points love you. The points become asteroids. If you had the language to do so, you would name them. You catalogue them nonetheless, as their unpredictable orbits bring them in and out of the range of your senses.

They cease to become asteroids when you realise you can exert force on them with the tools you have been given: your voice, your hands. Some of the former asteroids are indifferent to your actions, but others seem to respond closely and instantly to your manifestations of will, like you are tugging at the edges of a spider web at the centre of which they are perched.

You understand for the first time that the universe is not a product of your consciousness, but that, instead, your consciousness is the mechanism via which you understand the universe. You entertain the notion that maybe the universe existed before your consciousness – but that’s a bit much for now.

You see the universe now as a series of functions. Each function transforms input into a result. Some functions transform all inputs into the same result, other functions transform the same input into different results. Most functions, though, will produce a predictable result for a given input. If you cry, one function will pick you up. If you smile, that same function will smile.

I

After a protracted silence of deep concentration, young Donald hesitantly suggests a judgment on the issue of the bird that falls squarely at the end of his father’s pointed forefinger.

“Winner?”

Ruefully, Frederick Trump shakes his head. Despite his evident disappointment, he smiles at his son once more, directing his finger anew at an oak tree, ravaged by time and slowly losing its struggle against the wind and gravity.

Young Donald’s face briefly disappears into itself as he attempts to pluck a correct answer from the depths of his person.

“Loser. The tree is a loser,” he tells his father, self-assured in the failure of the tree to overcome the natural elements.

Again, Frederick shakes his head. The tree is still there, he explains. It refuses to admit defeat. The tree is a winner.

Much of their walk takes this shape. A finger extended. An answer put forth. A slow shake of the head or a smile of approval. The finger describes a dizzying constellation of objects: a moss-covered stone, the picked-at remains of a dead crow, a dandelion, the sun. Each falling neatly into the universe so clearly bisected by Frederick’s philosophical scalpel.

Comfortable with this rhythm, Donald becomes complacent. He begins to believe he understands the world. When he finds himself the target of his father’s finger, he refuses to answer, afraid his father will confirm it.

II

“It’s a butterfly,” Donald offers, confident in his knowledge of what a butterfly is.

His father shrugs, shakes his head. There are millions of butterflies, he says. What is a single butterfly, he asks.

“It’s a really good butterfly.” Encouraged by a subtle, semi-interested incline of the head he continues. “It’s the best butterfly, there is no butterfly like this anywhere. You need to see this butterfly.”

Frederick Trump smiles, urges him to go on.

“It is the only butterfly in the world.”

Around young Donald, the world begins to shine. He is in the most perfect place ever seen by man. Every rock the mightiest rock, every birdsong the most beautiful song. He is the happiest boy who has ever lived.

III

Donald is tasked by his gently enquiring father with evaluating a leaf, its veins glowing, backlit by the morning sun.

“I think it’s good. It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful leaf I’ve ever seen.”

Frederick Trump looks at him sceptically. Who are you, he asks, to tell me of the quality a leaf? You are just a boy.

Donald is crestfallen, but he sees his father’s manner is warm, not reproachful. If the leaf is beautiful to you, his father says, surely it must be beautiful to others. A glimmer of understanding reaches Donald’s eyes, their previous sadness quickly vanished as he accepts his father’s words.

“This leaf is incredible. Lots of people are saying it’s perfect. I’ve been hearing from lots of very smart people that you will never see a leaf better than this. That’s just what I’ve been told.”

Geneva toyed nervously with the hem of her dress, she’d never done this sort of thing before. Her husband was home alone, doing boring husband stuff like perfectly practicing hot yoga or studying feminist literature. Clegg thought she was out on the town with her friends on a Saturday night shopping for tupperware and sundries but in reality here she was, sitting in the hottest restaurant in town to have dinner up with a mysterious bachelor she’d met online.

She was wearing a tight red dress, roughly the shape of a human torso and the top parts of some human legs. She had chosen red specifically, in the hope it would remind him of blood and thus the incredible fragility of human existence - people were much more likely to make impulsive decisions if they were preoccupied with their possible imminent death. She wore a single chain of pearls around her neck, in the hope it would remind him of cum.

She turned these thoughts seductively over in her mind while practically gagging on a basket of breadsticks, then she saw him, striding confidently towards her, buttoning and unbuttoning his dress jacket as he struggled to remember which is the cool one to do when you’re sitting.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he intoned erotically, stroking his beard, “a lady on the bus shat herself.”

Geneva blushed, in all her 27 years a man had never apologized for inconveniencing her. She took a moment to study his face, he was handsome, and gorgeous. He had a sexy face that was extremely hot. Eyes close together and deeply sunken into his dark sockets. Teeth as ivory coloured and chaotic as a pile of ancient elephant bones. A high upturned nose that seemed to be trying to gesture at something on the ceiling without making a fuss. He looked exactly as he had in the pictures online, except with an additional third dimension.

“It’s fine,” she purred, extending her hand for him to like shake or kiss or whatever, “please, sit down.”

He sat opposite her, devouring her hungrily with his eyes, emanating a powerful sexual energy, like a teenager in an adult video store. Quickly he summoned a waiter and briskly ordered for both of them without asking her, an experience she found deeply thrilling as she was deathly allergic to even trace amounts of eggs and this could very likely kill her.

The dinner conversation grew heated, she could practically sense his erection straining through his trousers and pointing directly at her clitoris, which is how she genuinely thought penises worked. She was giddy on champagne and the guilty pleasure of cheating on Clegg, who was at this moment carving her a jewellery box from reclaimed timber. Her thoughts raced, did she plan to sleep with his man in front of her, who she knew only as bigpussylover6969? Her loins ached for him, or at least her loins ached, it was hard to get at the intentionality of a vagina.

As if reading her mind, without warning he leant over the table and placed a hand on her wrist, he whispered roughly into her ear, “I have a hotel room.” Taken aback she touched a hand lightly to her throat and gasped “cool.”

He whisked her out of the restaurant, erect member clearly visible, past waiters shouting something totally  incomprehensible about an unpaid bill. Suddenly they were in a cab, taking them metaphorically to Orgasm City but literally to Thrift Village, the hotel where they were going to have sex. They kissed lustfully in the back seat, using their lips to mash all up on the lips of the other, sexily. She felt his tongue in her mouth, presumably fossicking around for remains of the lobster she had eaten with great trepidation, sensually praying that the sauce was free from eggs and that the kitchen meticulously cleaned utensils inbetween uses.

She placed a hand gently on his violently engorged penis, sending a jolt through his body as if he had been struck by electricity or hit in the neck with a blow dart. Relatively certain neither of those things had happened she began to stroke his oddly textured shaft. It felt strange under her fingers, almost like the material they usually make pants out of. A realization dawned on her suddenly and she became instantly glad that no one could read her thoughts. Before she could unzip his pants and free his apparently extremely reluctantly imprisoned trouser snake the cab arrived at their hotel. He took her by the hand and pulled her quickly in the direction of the lobby, ignoring the completely unintelligible shouting from the cab driver about something to do with an unpaid fare.

She was picturing all the things she could do to him just in the elevator when they arrived at the door to his room, very much on the first floor of the complex. To a casual observer this room may have looked like a largish cupboard into which someone had tried to put a bed, an ironing board, a bar fridge and a television older than the internet but to them it was a pleasure palace, a temple of sensual delight, a fuck-synagogue.

He pushed her on to the bed callously, thrilling her with his physical strength and the delightfully wicked feel of half a pizza pressed into her back. He kissed his way down her thigh, working methodically like pac man chomping on those white dots to get at some cherries except the cherries are a vulva. With a look of intense concentration and reverence he removed her underwear like he was playing Operation and he would lose if they touched her legs. He moved his head quickly back between her legs, erotically headbutting her in the stomach. She ran her fingers through his hair as he expertly licked her everywhere except the parts that would feel good, the anticipation sending shivers through her spine. He deftly used his tongue to vigorously pleasure just to the left of her labia, alternating occasionally with the area above her clit.

Tantalizingly he ran a hand up her thigh, before proceeding to teasingly finger the exact middle of one of her butt cheeks, just sort of prodding the fleshy, featureless area. When she couldn’t take it any longer she pulled his face up to hers, kissing his perfectly dry face and mouth, positioning his surely by now unbelievably painful erection so that she could take him into her. He thrust confidently, missing entirely. Too proud to use his hands he wildly gyrated his hips, hoping to find an angle from which he could insert his penis, so that they could have sex. Once inside her he began to thrust frantically and erratically, like a fremen trying to outrun a sandworm. She moaned in concentration as she struggled to figure out what was going on with his rhythm. She tried to distract herself and think of other things, so as not to orgasm too quickly and disappoint him. He lifted one of her legs a bit, trying to maintain purchase. Two positions in one night? Now this was something she’d have to tell the girls about over cocktails.

The vigorous lovemaking was enveloping them both in sweat, all of it his. She ran her hands over his sweaty back, as slippery as a freshly zambonied ice rink. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, as he worked himself into hyperventilation sexually plowing her with his erotic man-meat. Suddenly she felt his thrusting quicken, she sensed his breathing grow even more hoarse and laboured as he came to closer to climax. His hips bucked as his jizz cannon fired a fresh wad of cum semen straight into her sperm receptacle.

He’s a slight man, slighter than you’d expect, though he stands straight and tall. He looks comfortable in his clothes, comfortable where he stands. This is his country, he was born and raised here, he knows its people and its ways. They say he’s got a gift. He lives in the foothills, with no kind of steady work, but from time to time people call on him and he’ll be paid in whatever foods and goods and services he needs to keep himself going. Folks call him Rattlesnake Jake although it’s not certain if that’s his birth name. He’s been in these parts maybe 20 years.

He crouches at the edge of the paddock, runs some dirt through his hands and squints into the sun. Rolling up his sleeves he clicks his tongue. “Yessir,” he says to himself, sighing. Standing he walks away from the paddock and goes back to his truck, reaching into the tray for a length of old rope and a pair of worn gloves. He fixes his jaw and walks back to the paddock, climbing over the termite-eaten fence. He sets his feet wide apart, lowers his centre of gravity. Almost idly his hands work the rope into a lasso. He eyes the horse. Wary, but not with suspicion, with the caution of a man facing an opponent he respects. He licks his lips, brushes the spit off them with his gloved thumb, tasting the leather.

“Listen here you piece of shit,” he says softly, in his gruff, breathy voice. “You motherfucking horse shithead. You fuckin’ horse bitch.” The horse was eyeing him back now. A big proud stallion, dark, maybe 18 hands. “You horse motherfucker come here you horse. You dickhead horse, fuck you.”

He moves forward slowly, one hand on the rope, one hand out stretched as if for balance and as if to reassure the horse. He barely lifts his feet, ancient leather boots pushing the dirt in furrows. “Stay the fuck where you are you fuck face horse. You fucking big ass horse asshole. Just look me in the eyes you terrible horse, look into my fuckin’ eyes you long face shit for brains. You dumb horse. Dumbass horse with your dumb huge face.” Without warning and in one fluid motion he brings the lasso up in a perfect arc, sending the loop of rope over the stallion’s neck. Its eyes widen, it stamps the ground, its breathing intensifies. “Yeah you shitty horse how you like that. I bet you don’t like that you weirdo idiot horse.” His voice is calm, measured. Confident. He’s been doing this his whole life.

The horse pulls against him, rearing back. Rattlesnake Jake digs his heels in, wrapping the rope around his right hand as he pulls the horse closer. His small frame hides an incredible strength, he barely shifts in the dirt as the horse fights against him. “Yeah you fuckin’ horse idiot. Nice try you bullshit horse. Bring it, Fuckface McHorse.” The length of rope shortens as he wraps more of it around his arm. He’s close to the horse now, eye to eye. He pulls hard, keeping the horse’s head low. “Come you fuckin’ horse you quiet the fuck down you piece of shit.” He drops the rest of the rope from his left hand, pulling the glove off with his teeth, never breaking eye contact. “Step off dumbass. You dumbass horse motherfucker, step off.” His voice is a whisper now.

He places his hand on the horse’s head, between the eyes. A gesture of friendship. A gesture of respect. “You idiot. You idiot horse. You dumbass idiot horse you’re not so tough now you pissy little horse dickwad.” Murmuring now into its ear, his hold on the rope loosened, the horse calmed. “You gay ass horse. You’re a gay ass horse you know that. Dumb gay horse. Fuck you.”

They stand face to face in the middle of the paddock. The wind blows hard and cold. They share a moment, a bond that transcends animal and man. Something ancient happened here.

  HELLO

  who are you

  ME?

  yes

  I AM THE HORSE THAT HERALDS THE END OF THE EARTH

  oh

  HMM?

  i said ‘oh’

  I AM THE IMMENSE HORSE THAT IS BOTH THE SIGN AND THE MEANS OF THE END OF DAYS

  i can see that

  HOW

  you are very big

  YES. I AM THE IMMENSE HORSE THAT IS BOTH THE SIGN AND THE MEANS OF THE END OF DAYS

  why

  WHY WHAT

  why are you that

  I AM NOT SURE

  do you like it

  I DO NOT FEEL ABOUT IT. I AM. MY FORM CARRIES WITH IT THE END OF DAYS AND MY MIND CARRIES WITH IT THE FORM. MY PATH IS TO DESTROY THE EARTH

  oh

  I AM THE IMMENSE HORSE WHO IS BOTH THE SIGN AND THE MEANS OF THE END OF DAYS

  yes. you said that

  IT IS IMPORTANT

  sure

  I MUST END YOU AS I MUST END ALL THAT LIVES

  okay

  DO YOU FEEL FEAR

  no

  WHY NOT

  i’m very tired

  IS THAT RELATED

  no. maybe. yes

  MY HOOVES HAVE LEVELLED CITIES ANCIENT AND NEW, MY MANE SHOOK THROUGH CLOUDS OF SMOKE AND ASH THAT ENGULFED SWATHES OF COUNTRYSIDE, THAT ECLIPSED MOUNTAINS

  i wish i’d slept in today

  WHY

  i’m very tired

  OH YES

  where did you come from

  I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN BUT NOW I AM HERE

  why

  IT IS TIME

  how did you know it was the time

  I DO NOT UNDERSTAND

  how did you know it was time to be here

  IT IS THE TIME BECAUSE I AM HERE, I AM HERE BECAUSE IT IS THE TIME

  oh

  I AM THE IMMENSE HORSE WHO IS BOTH THE SIGN AND THE MEANS OF THE END OF DAYS

  you are very immense

  YES. THANK YOU

  what happens now

  THE END

  what happens next

  NOTHING

  oh

  DO YOU HAVE ANY REGRETS

  yes

  WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE DIFFERENTLY

  everything. nothing. spent more time in the ocean. slept. nothing

  I CANNOT BE SORRY

  okay

  I AM THE IMMENSE HORSE

  yes

  WHO IS BOTH THE SIGN

  yes

  AND THE

  yes

  VERY WELL. I CANNOT BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT I AM. I CANNOT DO ANYTHING OTHER THAN THAT WHICH I AM DOING

  sure

  I MUST END YOU AS I MUST END ALL THINGS. I CANNOT BE CONTAINED BY THE DEPTHS OF THE OCEAN, I CANNOT BE CONSTRAINED BY THE CEILING THAT IS THE SKY, I BURN BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN

  okay

  I HAVE LAID WASTE TO THE CITY THAT WAS YOUR HOME

  i saw

  YOU STAND IN THE RUBBLE WHICH BURIES ALL YOU KNEW AND LOVED

  yes

  YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY

  yes

  YOUR COWORKERS

  yes

  YOUR CAT

  oh

  I AM NOT SORRY

  okay

  I CANNOT BE

  i know

  I AM THE UNSTOPPABLE FORCE

  i can’t stop you

  NO

  okay

  I AM UNSTOPPABLE

  sure

  I CANNOT FEEL OTHERWISE ABOUT THE CAT

  i understand

  I AM THE IMMENSE

  yep

  OKAY

  are you going to kill me

  YES

  now?

  IT IS THE END

  so, yes

  YES

  okay

OKAY

  sure

  OKAY. I AM THE

  yes

***

When he wakes this time he is on a train, his hands and feet unbound, limbs sprawled on a thin blanket. There is blood in his hair. Daylight peaks out from underneath a wide door on the side of the train car. The train moves quickly, the shaking of the car sets his teeth on edge. A plastic water bottle with the label torn off is rolling around the corrugated floor in the back of the car. He moves slowly to pick it up and drinks quickly, looking over the otherwise empty train car. No food, no bucket. He sits for a while and tries to remember his dream from last night before standing and trying the door. Locked from the outside. Hours pass.

Men in nondescript pseudo-military outfits grab him by each arm and move him to a waiting van. A clear liquid is injected into his thigh by a young woman with short cropped hair and a tattoo of a ram's head on her wrist. He does not struggle, he loses consciousness on the carpeted floor of the van.

***

Office cubicles. Segmented walls and desks. Flickering overhead light. Reading glasses. A handgun. Darkness.

***

The space is small, dark and smells of grease. Rising and falling sharply. The trunk of a car, he guesses. His hands are tied with rope in front of him, feet untied. His shoes are gone. There is nothing in the trunk with him that he can feel. Something odd in the way his hair sits against the floor tells him there is still blood in it, dry but sticky. It is impossible to tell if it is night or day. The car moves quickly over uneven roads. Dirt, maybe. Hours pass. He sleeps. He wakes. Hours pass. The road becomes smoother. He is thirsty, hungry.

The car stops. Two doors open and close. Footsteps on concrete. The boot is unlocked by a Japanese man wearing a baseball jacket, to his right a larger man with a pistol. The gunman gestures for him to climb out of the trunk, he does so awkwardly, painfully. He collapses on the ground of what appears to be a warehouse, sparsely lit by a few emergency lights. Putting the gun away the gunman picks him and rests him against the open trunk, letting him sit. The Japanese man checks his watch, says something in Japanese. The gunman does not react. Soon, a black sedan drives through the open roller door at the front of the warehouse, pulling to a stop two car lengths from the Japanese man and the gunman.

An elderly man in a suit exits the black car carrying a black briefcase. He asks the Japanese man if his time was successful. The Japanese man indicates that it went perfectly. The briefcase is handed over. He is pushed into the back seat of the sedan, hands still tied, by the gunman. The elderly man slowly and carefully injects the liquid into his thigh.

***

Running. Concrete corridors. Laughing. Security guards fumble for things on belts. Blood under fingernails. Eyes wide. Broken glass. Alarms. Stairs, three at a time. Heart racing. Screaming. Laughing. A second story window. Rolling. Screaming.

***

Pain in his ribs wakes him with a start. Clean, white, loose fitting clothes. Bandages on his arms. Hands and feet untied. In a white bed in a white room. A heavy-looking metal door, closed. No windows. His eyes feel lazy, his thoughts meander. A dream last night. Painkillers. At intervals a blonde woman opens the door and inspects the room. She checks the tube running into his arm, reads the display on a machine on a small table next to his head. She makes no eye contact, operates in complete silence. He falls in and out of a deep sleep. His ribs hurt, cuts on his fingers sting when he flexes his fingers. Time passes, maybe a week.

The blonde woman dresses him in jeans and a plain t-shirt that fit him perfectly though they are not his. Muscular men in plain clothes escort him to a van and indicate for him to sit. They handcuff his hands to a railing that runs above his head. They shut the door and all but two head back into the large, old-looking house they have come out of. The two remaining get into the front of the van and drive it down a long, curving driveway and out through a set of huge wrought iron gates. The area is green and wild, thick with shrubs and ferns but few large trees. The men talk as they drive, arguing over some sport, laughing. Their accents are cultivated, they speak formally as if only trained recently to do so.

The landscape becomes less green, more practical. Through the window on the back of the van he sees corn. His shoulders and wrists hurt. A dull ache still in his ribs. Hours pass and buildings appear, telegraph poles begin punctuating the miles they drive. Night falls. A town, rural. Coastal judging from the shopfronts and businesses. Little traffic, few pedestrians. The van stops, the man in the passenger seat exits. The sound of metal on concrete. The man re-enters, the van drives a short way forward, stops again. Both men exit. For a few minutes he can hear a faint exchange of words. The two men appear at the back of the van, they unlock his handcuffs and gesture for him to get out. He is shepherded to a group unkempt men standing under floodlights on a short pier. Looking around he can see fishing boats and a short way out to sea. One of the men grabs his shoulders and another roughly forces a syringe into his neck. They let go of him to watch him stumble for a short while before collapsing.

***

A rolling deck. Sea spray. Salt. Stinging hands. Shouting in Russian. Gunfire. Lights turning on. Damp shirt. Heavy breathing. Bodies thrown against bulkheads. Waiting, grabbing. Blood and sea water washing overboard. Climbing ladders. Metal against metal. Deafening gunshots. A knife. Men behind consoles. Frantic chatter. Crying. A crushed windpipe. Laughing. A hammer. Smoke.

***

A rolling deck. Sea spray. Salt. Daylight. His eyes sting. His hands and feet are free, his clothes are soaking wet. Blood soaks from his neck down to his waist. He is alone. It is silent except for the slow creaking of the ship. The ship is long, composed of a cabin that runs most of its length and an upper wheelhouse half as long as the cabin. It seems old and vaguely naval, maybe a patrol boat once. There are bodies, splayed, sometimes in pieces. No sea birds. He wanders through corridors and cabins. He finds tinned vegetables in a kitchenette and eats quickly, cold carrots and beans in brine. A sound outside. An outboard engine, conversation. Yelling. They are looking for him. He does not hide, they find him. A hessian sack is placed over his head and his hands are zip tied together. A blow on the back of the head. Darkness.

Woken by a slap. Rough hands open his eyelids, inspect his pupils. A man squints at him, smoking and muttering. Satisfied he gestures to a man behind him. An injection in the crook of his arm. The world recedes.

***

Apartment. High up. Night time. Glass and chrome. Guns in chest holsters. Jumping over furniture. Short sharp punches. A shard of glass into a throat. Screaming women. Doors opening, doors closing. Alarms. Spanish. Kicking down a door. A huge bed. A man hides in the corner, men with guns standing over him. Laughter. Screaming. Blood. Blood. Blood. Breaking. Tearing. Laughing. Running. Screaming. An empty boulevard. Running. Blood soaked hands. A car. Masked men. A struggle. Handcuffs. Screaming. Forehead into glass. Blood in his eyes. Screaming.

***

Thick, dry blood in his eyes. A rumbling that grows louder as he gains consciousness. It's cold. The floor slants and the walls are curved. A plane. His hands are tied in front of him with tape, his feet, knees and legs are also bound. Bottles of water and a deep bowl of something that might be food sit in a crate fastened to the wall with elastic ties. He inches over and drinks thirstily. He brings the bowl to his mouth and fills his mouth with the bland stew inside. He collapses. He waits. Time passes. He thinks of his dream last night, more coherent than the others, failing to slip from his mind. His hand aches.

The sound of a door sliding open. It's quiet now, the plane is still. Men in fatigues enter, hands resting on machine pistols clipped to belts. A man in plain clothes orders one of the others to hold him down. The plain clothes man uses a carton cutter to break the tape on his hands and legs and produces a syringe from his jacket.

He stares at the plain clothes man and the syringe. Something changes in him, something falls into place. A haze is falling away. Something in his chest rises, an energy that spreads through his body. He sets his jaw, breathes shallow, tenses every muscle in his body.

His hands move quickly, poised like claws.

Part 1

  The water is deep and warm, I’m clothed, I can breathe but the way the light falls on the sand beneath my feet I can tell I’m at the bottom of some vast ocean. Structures in the distance. In my hand I carry a book but I don’t know what it is. I feel compelled to walk. The pressure on my skin is calming, there is either silence or a roaring so uniform that it has become background noise. Shadows float past on the sand beside and in front of me, there are shapes moving above me but I cannot lift my head. Instinctively I trust them. I walk on the sand and I can feel myself descend, there is an incline I had not previously seen. As I walk further down the water gets cooler, it feels pleasant, I am relaxed. The structures I saw before come full into view, previously having seen only their tops I am in awe of their scale. Towers of a white stone - slow curves, no straight lines - they emit a soft glow and I am drawn to them, there is something inside and although I do not need it, I know that I would like to see it.

  Part 2

  I’m on a ship, it is immense and very, very old. People live here and I think maybe I do too. I need to reach the upper deck urgently, I think I need to be somewhere. There are people dancing and drinking in the corridors. It’s New Years Eve, something tells me we are in the past. There are women in red dresses holding champagne glasses laughing as I brush past them. I climb ladders and stairs but I am still inside the hull somewhere. I feel claustrophobic all of a sudden. I stumble into a room of people I know, they ask me to stay but I know I must leave, I have to get to the deck. I try to exit but every doorway leads me to a different cabin, I can feel my heart racing and my shoulders bunching, I can’t breathe. My eyes begin to close though my body is full of energy, I try to run to find another way out but my eyes are completely shut, I can’t feel where my limbs are, I don’t know if I’m standing, I can’t get out.

  Part 3

He wandered as if in a dream in a sea of pallet racks that doubled as shelves, his feet squeaking gently as the ancient rubber of his weekend shoes carried him at a moderate pace through the lighting fixtures aisle. His face was lit dramatically by the wall lamps and ceiling lights on display to his right, his moustache catching the soft warm glow of their frosted bayonet and edison bulbs. He clutched a tape measure in one hand, in the other a scrap of paper torn from a graph lined notebook, measurements written with a pencil he sharpened with a Stanley knife. Around him shuffled others not unlike himself, they browsed and they walked and they pondered, garbed in bizarrely high waisted jeans made from aging denim and polo shirts covered in paint. They nod to each other as they pass, a secret fraternity in this sacred place.

  There is music, distant yet familiar. It is the music of their youth, inoffensive and unassuming. The play of the music and the saturday morning sunlight lifts away thoughts of the office, in this place they are not bankers or accountants or clerks or salesmen. Here they are craftsmen, here they are builders. United in purpose. He could practically see the dreams at work here. Decks, patio extensions, cubby houses, bird baths, retaining walls. In this place ideas became material.

  Bathroom fittings, nails and screws, power tools, industrial cleaning products. A wondrous assortment of items but not what he is searching for. He can see it now in the distance. A forest of spindly uniform wood. Tingling with anticipation he reaches the timber section. Oak and pine and MDF and balsa and teak and maple, arranged by girth and density and shade just for him. With great care he examines and touches and hefts and measures. He thinks, staring at the sky and tongueing the back of his mouth. He clucks and titters and looks at the others as they shake their head in sympathetic indecision. These are not decisions to be rushed.

  Time passes, as it must. The timber is found. The colour, the strength, the price - all perfect. But the length, too great. With great reverence he approaches the desk. A man in an apron with spectacles hanging from his neck on a chain, attached with electrical tape. His hair is wild and grey, his eyes lined as one who has seen much and laughed long. He exudes calm and confidence, strength and maturity. His name tag reveals him to be “Gary”. An exchange of words occurs; of numbers and jokes, of observations and plans and speculation. Questions. Answers. Gary agrees, he has made the right choice. He is elated. He asks Gary will he cut the timber and Gary will, of course. With the casual elegance of a man who has always done what he does Gary hefts and cuts and checks and hands back the length of wood. They part pleased with each other, the ritual complete.

[In a messy living room, the GUYS, the SACK and the CUBE are watching the GAME]

  CHAD: I’m hungry, I could murder a ‘zza

DEREK: Me too bro, I’m so hungry I could eat a sack full of snakes!

SACK FULL OF SNAKES (angrily): sssssssssssss!!!!!

  [Laughter]

  DEREK: Present company excepted, duh bro!

  [More laughter]

  CUBE CONTAINING ALL HUMAN MEMORIES: I wandered as a young man on plains untouched by the wheel. I hunted mammoth and tooth-cat and bison with the spear my father gave me. I watched the sun break over mountains that are now covered by water. I painted my face in blood and prayed each day to the river god who we called the Waiting Man. I am Kummet-Ah of the river people and I will die at 23 of gangrene.

  [Too many beats of silence pass, the audience grows restless]

  CHAD: Duuuuuude, you gotta chill bro!

  [Laughter]

  CUBE CONTAINING ALL HUMAN MEMORIES: Our ships were black and sleek, as obsidian spears plunging into darkness. New worlds awaited us, clean and empty, their stark landscapes a relief after the world we left behind. I was an engineering officer on the UNSS Praxis, fortunate enough to be leaving our dying Earth but doomed to never see my family again. There would be no more ships after us, only ancient television broadcasts, ghosts of the people we left behind.

  [The SACK FULL OF SNAKES shifts uncomfortably, each snake painfully aware of its mortality and the futility of ambition. The SNAKES begin to eat each other, the cacophony so awful as to send the GUYS behind the COUCH, shaking in fear.]

  CHAD (shrieking): I can’t cum unless I think about fucking a clone of myself!

  DEREK (screaming): It wasn’t an IED I detonated a grenade in a failed attempt to kill myself!

  [Laughter]