The Watch on the Wrist of God

Jun 25, 2004 17:02

(NOTE : Okay, so I slightly changed the title, but the start of this epic tale is here. As was policy with the "Journal" story, let me know all of your input, good and bad, and I'll take it into concideration. :D Enjoy! )

Chapter 1

Tom Wilson didn't want to be shopping in the first place, let alone three days before Christmas. They always said to get your shopping done before december, beat the rush and laugh it up with eggnog and brandy with all the gifts under your tree weeks early, but no one did. Even those that told you to shop early probably never did. It was their secret plan to make sure no one was around when they wanted to shop at the last possible moment. But somewhere, somehow, the plan always seemed to backfire - and hundreds, if not thousands, of people congested the mall and fought over the ragged remains of retailer's final christmas stock. Somehow, it always ended up like this and Tommy Wilson, father of two and supervisor of several, tried to dodge it every single year.

He distinctly remembered one Christmas shopping adventure, when his son Robbie was four, how it had been easier. A lot easier. It was the turn of the century, and while the Y2K panic epidemic had robbed the world of it's sanity, the only town that was hit the hardest was his own small city of Riverbrook. People had tucked themselves away in attics or basements, pick your poison, for the last two weeks of 1999 (just incase the impending apocalypse was weeks ahead on his timex watch) and skipped christmas all together. Canned food and bottled water surrounded huddling families as they listened to the radios, holding their own breaths with eternal anguish every time the announcer took too long to get back on air. To these people, a three second pause after a song on the religious station was, quite possibly, the silence that would follow the last song of eternity. But to Tom Wilson, the whole scare was paradise.

Streets were deserted, traffic lights blinked aimlessly at anyone who still roamed the earth, and most businesses were shut down for the remainder of the year. To Tom, this translated into three simple facts : No one on the streets to slow him down, no one to worry about when speeding down said streets, and no need to pull in those much needed hours at work. Times were tough with Robbie old enough to be picky and choosy, demanding only the finest quality for food and gift. Money wasn't the same, but with the whole Riverbrook Y2K Scare, most businesses ended up just giving their employees an automatic 80 hour paycheck as they saved themselves in the chilly depths of their cellars. Thanks to the wonderful mayor of the town, no one had to work for two weeks (thanks to tax payers money) and still got the income for it. It never occured to any of them that, if Y2K truely was the end of humanity, no one would need a paycheck, unless Satan himself accepted small bills.

During those empty, empty days in Riverbrook, few stores were still open. This was the only thing that discouraged Tom Wilson, as well as the fact no one had plowed the roads before awaiting armageddon. The hunting store was still running, and it's long time owner, Old Man Dillard, was protecting the stock of ammo and guns with vicious intent, shotgun loaded and ready behind his counter for anyone seeking his life work. Tom even remembered, with frightening clairity, passing the hunting store in his car during shopping that year - and watching the eye of Old Man Dillard behind the raised barrel of his shotgun as he kept sight of his head till he was out of range. It wasn't the redneck mentality that bothered Wilson during the encounter with him behind the bars and glass of his store windows, it was the fact that no one would have been around to help him if that boney, withered finger on the shotgun trigger decided to pull.

But among all the stores that had shut down, one had been opened two months before the christmas season struck (with Y2K in mind, and the futuristic appeal that 2000 was supposed to have) and was expected to blow everything out of proportion. Even the malls of the state's capitol were to be concidered "little brothers" to the power and majesty of this one store alone. Stretching eight floors, four above the tallest building in Riverbrook, like a monument to the grand reign of humanity over it's own destiny, was The Palace. With each floor built with a specific demand in mind, The Palace intially had stood as a definate threat to the homegrown retail of Riverbrook at it's intial conception. After a brief protest, the wonderful mayor of the town caved in and worked out a deal with the corporation behind The Palace. It wasn't long at all before the first floor of the towering behemoth was to be desigated for local citizens to set up shop and sell their goods in various kiosks and booths. It was a farmer's market, for a lack of better word, but with every local product in mind. Actually, it was more like a new age flea market.

Anyway, with The Palace being completed months before christmas shopping season( which was the intial plan, thanks to the president of the shopping complex, Harvey Bergidan ) it would have been foolish to shut it down for the fabled Riverbrook Y2K Scare. And so, they kept it open during the quiet weeks before New Years Eve. Their target sales and revenue was not even remotely close enough to be concidered successful for the season, but the years after prooved worth while to Bergidan and, ultimately, the wonderful mayor of the town - who recieved a fine percentage secretly in his pocket to compensate for the backlash he recieved while agreeing to let The Palace be installed in the first place. Tom Wilson was one of their few customers in that time, and for a lack of better word, he was impressed with the whole event.

While the first floor was mostly deserted, because all the "merchants" of the town were hiding and huddling below the earth, the remaining six were full of products and discounts ( thanks to their desperation in selling the christmas stock ). Clothes, floor three, were purchased for the missus and the two kids - brand names at that - and a few ties for himself. A new stereo system, found on floor five, for his brother - and a CD player for himself. And finally, a new stove, also on the same floor, for his mother in Kansas. And of course, dozens of clerks running around to serve and cater his every need, because right then and there, he was the only thing stopping them all from being laied off and experiencing their own renditions of the end times. Tom Wilson felt like a king that wonderful, apocalypse-enduced December of 1999 ; a king, in his own proverbial Palace.

Morton Lennemound, financial adviser to Harvey Bergidan himself, had been reading aloud the summary report and estimated sales for the past fifteen minutes and was only now beginning to suspect no one was listening to him. He slowed his nasal voice down, adjusted the folder in his lap to create an attention-grabbing rustling of papers, and even cleared his throat twice through the report. Neither of these tactics seemed to alter the silent demeanor of Bergidan, and so the advisor stopped talking altogether. Looking up from the folder, Morton's gaze focused on the back of the large chair that his employer was sitting in, hazel eyes blinking twice behind large specticals impatiently. The silence engulphed them within the large office, thicker than the heated air that clouded from the vents in the tall ceiling. Shoppers were spending their money in the several floors below, but here on the eigth one, the usual drone of consumer transaction did not infiltrate through. Beyond the long desk (complete with "Harvey M. Bergidan, President" engraved in a marble plaque), tall chair, and the president himself, the night sky stretched onward into a small town horizon through a window that covered the entire wall. It was this that drew in Bergidan's attention, the scenary beyond the hustle and bustle of Lennemound's financial reports and predictions. It was the sight of the people below that truely captivated his thoughts.

" I've been up here for five years now, Morty. " After a few moments of silence, the president spoke up. His southern accent caught the adviser off guard, even more so since the chair never moved. " Five years of observing the people gradually flock to this shopping centre, five years of making strong decisions and even stronger sacrafices. Doesn't five years seem like a long time to you, Morty? "

The adviser was dumbstruck. Pushing his glasses up his nose with a ring finger (which still bore the metal band of a rather sudden divorce several years ago ), Morton adusted his papers rather loudly as he searched for the right responce. " With all due respect, sir, " He finally said, " I've been in the financial business for fourty years. Retirement is close for me, but I'm not looking forward to it. I find five years miniscule. "

Like an emperor rising from his throne, Harvey Bergidan stood up with hands on the arm rests of the chair. He stepped toward the window, slowly, footsteps echoing loudly through the large office. A suit of armor, decorating along the wall to his left, reflected his brief journey there. " I've watched them come and go for five years now, Morty. " He slipped his hands behind his back, standing tall before the window. Below, the well lit parking lot stretched out for two blocks around the building - most of the spots were full with a multi colored armada of vehicles. " People coming in with frowns, worried about prices or not knowing if they'll find that perfect present for Little Suzy's birthday party. People leaving with smiles, bags upon bags of their every desire stacked like treasure chests in the shopping carts they push. I've created a pleasent experience for these people, Morty, and I've done it for five years now. "

Morton cleared his throat once more, sniffling against a new spout of snot that threatened to run out of his nostril. Reaching for a napkin from his pocket, the advisor pressed onto what he did best - finances. " Sir, I think this is a bad time to start concidering your role in the food chain. As I was stating before, we've got a delayed shipment from Sony that won't be rolling in till monday. " A pause as the loud honk of his nose expelled loudly into the air. " Monday, sir! We're selling them like wildfire! We can't afford to run out four days before they come here again! The factory in Bridgeton says the roads are too icy to ship now, but I think that's a lot of shit, sir, because my nephew came down from Saxville and spent a whole - " Harvey raised his hand to end this brigade of rambling ; Morton shut his mouth quite quickly.

" I don't think you understand what I'm trying to say here, Morton. " Harvey lowered his hand and fed it back into his other hand behind him. His well groomed reflection in the window watched him, just as much as he watched the people below. " Our first year was ultimately our worst, thanks to the millenium scare, but we're past that now - and we've tripled our predicted income since then. The Palace will live forever, even after we're both six feet under the ground. " Morton didn't particularly like this remark - he was a couple dozen years older than Harvey was. " Which is why we must shut down all operations here. We've done what we've come to do, and it's a miracle we didn't ruin this small town in the process. "

Morton almost fell out of his chair, mouth dropping open, glasses tumbling off into his lap. Shakey hands fumbled to put them back on, the folder spilling onto the finely polished floor. Papers slipped in every direction, he didn't even notice. " Mr Bergidan, sir! I'm certain you do not intend to shut The Palace down, do you? What of our twelve billion dollar fiscal intake? Our corporate deals with the major companies! What of all the Little Suzies of the world?! " He was already on his feet, charging to the desk, hands desperatly grabbing onto the surface of it to stress his point. " We've succeeded in every aspect, sure we had a rocky start, but so did every major corporation! Soon we'll have chain stores across the globe, every city in the world will have a Palace to call their own! We will rule the retail market, Mr Bergidan, and I highly do not recommend throwing that realistic opportunity out the window! "

The president remained unhinged. He did not flinch at the advisor's desperate reality check, nor did he even regard his fuming reflection in the window. Eight floors below, a little girl in a blue coat ran ahead of her mother with a newly bought doll in her exaulted hands. She smiled greatly, and Harvey smiled back as he watched. " Then let us move our market to larger, greater cities. Cities like Boston, Phillidelphia or Washington. Cities that can look at the Palace and agree that it's a good store, and not a convenient Godsend that everything can be found in. I never wanted to be a God, Morty. I never wanted that, but that's what I've got. Prepare a new report for me detailing our options for shut down, and relocation. I want this all done and over with by the end of spring of next year. "

Morton Lennemound had nothing more to say in defence to this. Like a beaten dog, he bent down and gathered up the papers on the floor - all destined for the shredder now - without looking up to his employer. " We'll need to do full scale lay offs, deal with lawsuits by the major corporations we signed with, we'll lose thousands.... millions, even... " he was muttering now mostly to himself, papers crumpled and askew under an arm as he stood up and turned for the door. He had watched this building start as a far fetched idea discussed in a drunken debate at a bar, to a powerful icon for the generations of retail industry everywhere. Morton had felt, for a lack of better word, like the step father to the Palace - and it shamed him now to be a part of the pulling of it's plug. Worst of all, it enraged him to be employed by a man that did not see beyond the rationality of human emotion. While it may have been opportunistic for them to open such a large operation in a town that was already suffering, the results were still good enough for everyone to forgive and forget the mentality of the corporate money hound.

Even now, as he closed the oak door behind him and shut the irrationality of Harvey Bergidan away into the office, Morton Lennebound could hear the suffering of his fine financial empire echoing it's collapse as the wooden door shut in the frame, and the click of the knob that followed it. It sounded a lot like the hammer of a revolver pulling back.
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