Two Thousand Unemployed Farmers

They finally met at the pub. It rained and the lorry outside made a booming sound as he ordered meatballs and mashed potatoes. The woman opposite had the curly kind of hair that looked like pasta, he thought while chewing on the meat. "You know what? There are two thousand unemployed farmers in this county," she said in an attempt to strike up a conversation. He nodded, while looking at her posh necklace. She had tried to make an effort, he noticed and said something about her dress. "Yeah, thank you Erik." She wasn't prepared to talk about how she looked. "Isn't it distasteful? This county needs farmers. All these unemployed farmers are doing unqualified tasks, while people are starving outside this sector." She stopped when looking at his eyes. Totally blank. Why was this woman going on? he thought. He was trying to be nice to her. He made a real effort. More than was demanded of him. Why couldn't she be nice? Her fork suddenly made its was to the floor under the table. "Shit!", she dived down to fetch it. For a short moment she scrutinized his slacks and leather boots before turning up again, looking slightly embarrassed.

They finished the meal. She paid and then offered him a lift in her car. It was dark outside. "I sure hope I don't get caught by the police", she smiled. "Yeah, but how serious could it be.” “For you?" he added while looking at her dark profile. They passed the office district. It was largely dead by this time. He looked impressed. Most of the large towers seemed undamaged. Some even looked shining in the constant lights from numerous sources. She followed his eyes. "We are copying quite well, despite what people say.” He grunted and pointed at an enormous blown out building. "Of course, some parts has its beauty spots.” A harsh tone now. He realized he had gone to far now, and felt uneasy before hearing her sales man voice again; ”Rome wasn't repaired in one day, you know" He decided to shut up before spoiling things for himself. Very few cars passed as they turned into the residential districts on the south side. The car droved up to a villa. They waited while security doors opened. After parking, they remained motionless in their seats. Very quiet. He looked at her wonderingly. She seemed to be thinking about something very hard, then sighted, and opened the car door. "OK. Shall we go?”

Domestic Bliss

Prava se Muka ne da Sakriti 1 ~ Petar Meseldžija

They came upon his upturned frame, cogs and flywheel spinning, amongst the cindered undergrowth.
Axiom proposed they leave him where he lay, he was, after all, she reminded Reflex, the reason they were in this pickle.
Ignoring all protocol (as was his want) Reflex extended his hand to return the troublesome creature right-way-up.
Curtail, oblivious to good fortune but once more upright, emitted an electro-magnetic-pulse to evict all manner of dust and soot from his works.
This careless action caused Axiom to jump back sharply covering her chip-cavity and ejaculating an ancient curse involving family lineage and interlaced sexual congress.
Curtail attempted an apologetic whimper and rolled doleful eyes in her direction (he did know which side his bread was buttered).
Reflex slapped him across the head causing another (less practised) whimper and a metallic echo from the surrounding charcoal forest.
“Shoulda got a fuckin' cat” muttered Axiom as they made there way onward.

Foot in the door

Image by Infowars Ireland

--You're wha'? said Terry.
He said it loudly over the noise spilling out the door.
--I'm the new bartender. I just got here from Canada.
--Eh -- I'll get the gaffer.
Terry went in the pub, leaving the Canadian standing in the parking lot with his suitcase. It was Friday night and there was a young couple making out at one end of the lot, and an old fella puking his ring up at the other end. A few people came out the door. One of them mumbled something at him about crack, but he couldn't make it out with the accent. He was about to say something back when Terry arrived, followed by Mr. Crummy.
--Now just who the fuck are you meant to be? said Mr. Crummy.
--I'm Nate Freake, said the Canadian.
--Wha'? Come again?
--I'm the bartender from Canada. From the recruitment agency.
--Are yeh jokin' me? Sure you were suppos' to be here over a year ago. I don't need a bartender now, Mr. Crummy said. --Wha' the fuck am I supposed to do with yeh annyway?
Mr. Crummy's tone was harsh and serious. Nate looked to Terry to see if there was any support there. Terry just away into the overcast sky. A group of middle-aged men went past the three standing in the door and nodded towards Mr. Crummy. Inside was the sound of laughter and shouts, a Robbie Williams song playing. Nate wondered if moving to Dublin had been such a good idea.
--Well, I was told to make my way here and that you'd have a job and accomodations for me. It's not like I can just hop on a bus and go home.
A smirk crept across Terry's face and he pursed his lips, swallowing a laugh. His boss gave him a sideways glance.
--Jaysis. Yis may as well come in for now till we sort this ou'.
Nate picked up his suitcase and stepped over the threshold into the porch.
--Just stay ou' of the way in the lounge over there, said Mr. Crummy, pointing towards the door on the right. --I'll get in touch with tha' bollix from the agency an' we'll see wha' can be done.
--Thank you, said Nate, as he made his way into the lounge.
--Terry, see tha' the lads on the bar get him a pint. An' for fuck sakes, if annyone else shows up sayin' there're here for a job, tell 'em to go back where th' fuck they came from, righ'?

the wallet

bob was a very nervous person, always worrying about something. there were two things in particular he worried about. the first was that was life was not real. he constantly found little things, little discrepancies, that made him think the world was a dream and that he would wake up and find himself - where? socks and handkerchiefs were almost the worst - every time he lost one - where could it have possibly gone? - he was sure the fabric of the "real world" was dissolving. but the worst was at work , where pieces of paper would disappear - where? there was no wind in the office - leaving him in terrified despair. sometimes he would stay after hours - with no overtime pay - desperately searching for a paper that had to - had to - be somewhere. the cleaning people, who spoke some language he didn't understand - spanish? russian? - never showed any interest or annoyance at him. his closest call came one night when he stayed six hours after work on a friday and finally found a piece of paper with a phone number on it in a wastebasket he had already looked in eight times. he made his way to the subway almost sobbing with relief. he felt that this ordeal, since it had not destroyed him, had made him tougher. but just as he entered the subway it occurred to him - what if the paper had in fact disappeared - and then been put back? but this thought was too terrible to contemplate and he pushed it away. but the second thing - the thing that frightened him most of all - was the thought of losing his wallet. and then one evening it happened. he was almost at the subway - again, on a friday! - when he reached into his pocket and his wallet was gone. although he checked his other pockets - without breathing - he knew right away it was no use - he always kept the wallet in his left back pocket. for a moment he couldn't see - had he actually blacked out? he tried to pull himself together. i can get through this, he told himself. i can do this. i only have to get through the weekend, until monday morning. he had a few dollars in a drawer in his apartment - his keys!! he plunged his hand into his right side pocket where he always kept his keys - and they were there! it was going to be all right. he could buy some food and in any case he had enough peanut butter and crackers and milk to get through the weekend even if he hoarded the money. when he got home he would call the credit card companies - he only had two credit cards - he had their numbers written down in a notebook that he kept in the same drawer as the money - but what if it wasn't there? he started to tremble and he forced himself to start walking. with luck he would be home in ninety minutes, the keys in his pocket would let him into the apartment building and his own apartment and the notebook with the credit card numbers would be in the drawer. all this, of course, if life were real. i can do this, he repeated to himself. on monday morning he would start recovering his i d. he would explain to his supervisor what had happened and that he had to make some personal calls. as a rule, he never made personal calls so he hoped she would cut him some slack. maybe he could even get some one in personnel to help him. he would have to have the security people at the front desk call the office to let him in so he would have to tell them what had happened anyway. it would be embarrassing but maybe for the best. thinking these things through made bob feel a little calmer. i can do it, he thought, it will make me stronger. life is real, we have to do these things. he realized that his heart was still pounding. then it hit him - what if a terrorist had his wallet and used his credit cards to buy - "hey, mister -" he heard a voice behind him. "hey, mister -" the voice came from a million miles away. he turned and saw a teenage boy wearing a red jacket with a big letter "w" on it. a teenage girl with the same jacket was standing a little behind him. they both looked at bob curiously. "you dropped your wallet."