The Watch on the Wrist of God (Part 2)
Drake Haliber hated gift shopping with a passion. The veitnam veteran, who was also a divorced father of none, spent his days twisting bolts onto nuts in the churning factories of the Townsend car plant. What little money he made from this full time work was for him, and him alone - nevermind losing it all on a gift for parents that kicked him out of the house when he hit eighteen, or for his bigger brothers (who all were now crippled physically by lung cancer, thank you very much) that used to hold him down and dangle worms into his ears. They deserved nothing of what he earned, the minimum wage he made was enough to support himself, the occassional 24 of beer, and the even less occassional bag of cocaine.
You could say, that if Tom Wilson and Drake had ever met in a bar (which was all too possible ; Drake never needed a reason to spend the night in one), they both would have hit it off based on their own personal dislike of shopping. Although both levels of distaste had stemmed from different reasons, they both revolved around the same sphere of influence like two moons on an eternal axis around the planet of consumer business. But alas, the two never had a chance to talk before the christmas shopping season of 2004, and so both kept their moons of loathing spinning secretly in the darkness of their lives.
For Drake, however, he just didnt want to lose his hard earned money on family members that did not deserve it (those that did, were already under ground, god bless them). The Palace, in all it's majestic uprising and firm foundations that spread through the state like the throbbing veins of a disease, did little to alter his stance on the subject, dispite it's convenience. Sure, a sale or two here and there did earn him a bottle of beer in the end, but why earn a bottle when you could give your brother a fuck-you instead of a new sweater, and get a case of beer for your troubles? The only difference this year, was that the doctors were preaching about Scott and Todd's ultimate dimise within the next two months. Death or no, Drake's parents wanted to make this christmas one to remember - as it would ultimately be the last one for two of their three sons. The two sons left, mind you, that still cared about them.
What did the doctors know, anyway? Shined shoes and straight ties, clipboards arched perfectly to hide the contents from your eyes, yet still bathe their own in glorious information. Doctors always seemed above everyone, and why not? Their words were regarded as truth, as circumstance. The words of the doctor were the words of a practical resolution, even if they were spouting shit from the tailored pant cuffs of those very marching, wise words. They were not Gods, by no means, but they were his angels. They called the shots, they decided who needed what to live longer. Smart ass fucks. What did they know, anyway?
Drake vagually remembered a medic in his platoon, back in those infamous (and now hardly recalled and appreciated) days of Nam. Walter was his name, or was it Malter? Maybe his last name was Malter, or Daulter. Regardless, he had the same air about him that the doctors Drake delt with concerning his brother's health did. Arrogant, chin raised high, boots polished in the muddy trails, reflecting the light that beamed through the cracks in the tree tops of the damp jungle. Malter (or Daulter) never had a tie, but he had a helmet neatly strapped under his chin. Little good it did him when a gook in tree eventually ripped ammo through his arrogant smart ass fuck left eyeball.
The doctors that kept the Haliber brothers under constant supervision within the Riverbrook Memorial Hospital looked, and acted, a lot like Malter did. Drake was certain that, should they ever have to experience combat like he and his platoon did, those very doctors would shit their pants and diagnose each other with the Apple spirt shits. No sir, we're not afraid of all this death and destruction, we're oblivious to the scattered brains of our pals on the dry bark of the palm trees. We're just constupated, that's all. A bowl of fibre should help that, mhmm. Nurse, who's next?
Regardless of this rather interesting observation, Drake couldn't help but remember the reaction of his parents at the time they heard the news. Ol' papa Haliber with his straw hat and twist tied moustache that hangs over a scowling mouth like rat's tails. Ol' mama Haliber, two tonnes wide, still struggling through the doorway when the doctors told their cryptic news (from behind raised clipboards, of all things). Drake, she sobbed to him. Come to the family christmas, just this once. Just so Todd and Scott can pass on thinking we're a happy family again. The two brothers were oblivious to this discussion, lost in the world of eternal sedation to ease the pain, sprawled side by side in the beds they never really knew they layed in. The only noise they knew of was the breathing of the live support machines standing watch and guard over their lives like twin statues. Drake doubted they'd even recognize christmas when it came to them, one final time.
So when it really boiled down to it, Drake had agreed to join his mother's beloved "final christmas". While it would be spent in Scott and Todd's hospital room, with a little artificial tree leaning crookedly in the corner, it still ment something to them all. Drake supposed, on some levels, it ment something to him too. Although what, exactly, he didn't know. He just didn't quite know, just yet.
Morton Lennemound, previously the most important asset to the Bergidan Empire, had lost that spring in his step. As he passed through the halls of The Palace's eighth floor, past the offices and desks of his smiling associates and co-workers. Each one offered a merry greeting, each one offered their take on the holiday cheer. Morton, for once, could do nothing in reply to this. He shuffled, silently, down the carpetted halls toward his office, papers askew under his arm still, each one telling a financial story that now ment nothing to anyone. On the speakers that owned every corner of the halls, Bing Crosby gave his own warm regards in a carol that brought the joy of the holidays creeping through the area like fog through London.
When Morton reached his small office (no window, either, he always thought glumly), he slipped inside and shut the door quietly behind him. The joyful laughter of a secretary was cut off as quickly as he would have liked, leaving him in silence. Without turning on a light, he let the papers fall to the floor and walked to his desk. Reports and the sort crackled under his loafers. The whole way back, he was trying to concider a way to keep The Palace alive, to relocate and still bring in the revenue that made him happy. The gears and mathamatical professors in his brain ran and scurried, struggling for something as they worked with chalk boards in deep thought. They could find nothing, Morton could find nothing. The Palace was doomed.
Clicking on a lamp on the corner of his desk, the adviser fell back into his chair and let it roll until it hit the wall behind him. A deep exhalation, which quickly evolved into a sigh, flapped his lips. There was no way to draw in the same figures anywhere else in the world. There was, aboslutely no way any of them would be remotely as rich as they are now. The beauty of the Palace was that it latched onto the suffering community of Riverbrook like a cancer, an unsuspecting cancer, and sucked away at everything till every dollar the people wanted to spend was spent within it. They even had plans to launch a gas station in one of their parking lots, which now would have to be scrapped in light of Bergidan's foolish career move. The thought disgusted Morton, slamming his fist onto his desk with more force than expected from a scrawny accountant. His coffee mug ( With the golden font proclaiming " World's greatest fisherman" ) rattled at the impact.
Bergidan... Mother fucking Harvey Bergidan. Things were swell this fine winter morning, oh how they were so very swell and perfect. The roads had all been plowed for him, the coffee at ten AM did indeed taste like coffee, and the world was looking good. Morton even felt good for his ex wife, whom was now having her third child with the man that was, ultimately, better than he was. The accounts were looking good, the corporate deals were promising, the fiscal intake was enough to send him around the world for the rest of his calculator-operating days. And then, like a swarm of hemmoroids before the big cycle races, Bergidan decides to pull the plug for his own selfish morals. Another slam on the desk with his right fist, this time tottering the mug off the edge to shatter on a filing cabnet. Shards and small piece of white porceline fell to the carpet, like grounded snowflakes. Morton looked at it for a very long time with a tilted head.
In his troubled, troubled mind, Morton was still watching the mug fall off the desk. It rattled toward the edge, seemed to hold it's ground, then lost the proverbial battle with balance and slipped off. The mug spun once, cold coffee from earlier today (the coffee that had tasted so damn good) oozing out like a toffee colored blob into the passing air. When the handle hit the corner of the metal filing cabnet, it broke in two. The blob splashed on the cabnet, the cup itself rained down in assorted fragments to litter the fine green carpet. Jagged pieces, square pieces, pieces that could slit a throat or two, it all rained down and settled. The golden text on the cup was now ultimately askew. Letter were jumbled, some were broken beyond recognition or buried under the mess, but one word did take center stage among the debris.
Morton looked at this word for a very long time, long enough for others on the floor to take lunch and comfortably get back to their working. Infact, many were nearing the end of their shift when the accountant stood up. He did not notice the pain that usually seized up his back. He was not blinded by the darkness of his office. Morton knew what to do, how to solve the problem of the Bergidan Empire. Oh, how he knew. Passing through the office and reaching for the door, Morton took a glance back at the shattered mug - and the message that triggered an answer for everything, his personal moment of clarity.
The word that formed in the rubble was D-EAT-H.
You could say, that if Tom Wilson and Drake had ever met in a bar (which was all too possible ; Drake never needed a reason to spend the night in one), they both would have hit it off based on their own personal dislike of shopping. Although both levels of distaste had stemmed from different reasons, they both revolved around the same sphere of influence like two moons on an eternal axis around the planet of consumer business. But alas, the two never had a chance to talk before the christmas shopping season of 2004, and so both kept their moons of loathing spinning secretly in the darkness of their lives.
For Drake, however, he just didnt want to lose his hard earned money on family members that did not deserve it (those that did, were already under ground, god bless them). The Palace, in all it's majestic uprising and firm foundations that spread through the state like the throbbing veins of a disease, did little to alter his stance on the subject, dispite it's convenience. Sure, a sale or two here and there did earn him a bottle of beer in the end, but why earn a bottle when you could give your brother a fuck-you instead of a new sweater, and get a case of beer for your troubles? The only difference this year, was that the doctors were preaching about Scott and Todd's ultimate dimise within the next two months. Death or no, Drake's parents wanted to make this christmas one to remember - as it would ultimately be the last one for two of their three sons. The two sons left, mind you, that still cared about them.
What did the doctors know, anyway? Shined shoes and straight ties, clipboards arched perfectly to hide the contents from your eyes, yet still bathe their own in glorious information. Doctors always seemed above everyone, and why not? Their words were regarded as truth, as circumstance. The words of the doctor were the words of a practical resolution, even if they were spouting shit from the tailored pant cuffs of those very marching, wise words. They were not Gods, by no means, but they were his angels. They called the shots, they decided who needed what to live longer. Smart ass fucks. What did they know, anyway?
Drake vagually remembered a medic in his platoon, back in those infamous (and now hardly recalled and appreciated) days of Nam. Walter was his name, or was it Malter? Maybe his last name was Malter, or Daulter. Regardless, he had the same air about him that the doctors Drake delt with concerning his brother's health did. Arrogant, chin raised high, boots polished in the muddy trails, reflecting the light that beamed through the cracks in the tree tops of the damp jungle. Malter (or Daulter) never had a tie, but he had a helmet neatly strapped under his chin. Little good it did him when a gook in tree eventually ripped ammo through his arrogant smart ass fuck left eyeball.
The doctors that kept the Haliber brothers under constant supervision within the Riverbrook Memorial Hospital looked, and acted, a lot like Malter did. Drake was certain that, should they ever have to experience combat like he and his platoon did, those very doctors would shit their pants and diagnose each other with the Apple spirt shits. No sir, we're not afraid of all this death and destruction, we're oblivious to the scattered brains of our pals on the dry bark of the palm trees. We're just constupated, that's all. A bowl of fibre should help that, mhmm. Nurse, who's next?
Regardless of this rather interesting observation, Drake couldn't help but remember the reaction of his parents at the time they heard the news. Ol' papa Haliber with his straw hat and twist tied moustache that hangs over a scowling mouth like rat's tails. Ol' mama Haliber, two tonnes wide, still struggling through the doorway when the doctors told their cryptic news (from behind raised clipboards, of all things). Drake, she sobbed to him. Come to the family christmas, just this once. Just so Todd and Scott can pass on thinking we're a happy family again. The two brothers were oblivious to this discussion, lost in the world of eternal sedation to ease the pain, sprawled side by side in the beds they never really knew they layed in. The only noise they knew of was the breathing of the live support machines standing watch and guard over their lives like twin statues. Drake doubted they'd even recognize christmas when it came to them, one final time.
So when it really boiled down to it, Drake had agreed to join his mother's beloved "final christmas". While it would be spent in Scott and Todd's hospital room, with a little artificial tree leaning crookedly in the corner, it still ment something to them all. Drake supposed, on some levels, it ment something to him too. Although what, exactly, he didn't know. He just didn't quite know, just yet.
Morton Lennemound, previously the most important asset to the Bergidan Empire, had lost that spring in his step. As he passed through the halls of The Palace's eighth floor, past the offices and desks of his smiling associates and co-workers. Each one offered a merry greeting, each one offered their take on the holiday cheer. Morton, for once, could do nothing in reply to this. He shuffled, silently, down the carpetted halls toward his office, papers askew under his arm still, each one telling a financial story that now ment nothing to anyone. On the speakers that owned every corner of the halls, Bing Crosby gave his own warm regards in a carol that brought the joy of the holidays creeping through the area like fog through London.
When Morton reached his small office (no window, either, he always thought glumly), he slipped inside and shut the door quietly behind him. The joyful laughter of a secretary was cut off as quickly as he would have liked, leaving him in silence. Without turning on a light, he let the papers fall to the floor and walked to his desk. Reports and the sort crackled under his loafers. The whole way back, he was trying to concider a way to keep The Palace alive, to relocate and still bring in the revenue that made him happy. The gears and mathamatical professors in his brain ran and scurried, struggling for something as they worked with chalk boards in deep thought. They could find nothing, Morton could find nothing. The Palace was doomed.
Clicking on a lamp on the corner of his desk, the adviser fell back into his chair and let it roll until it hit the wall behind him. A deep exhalation, which quickly evolved into a sigh, flapped his lips. There was no way to draw in the same figures anywhere else in the world. There was, aboslutely no way any of them would be remotely as rich as they are now. The beauty of the Palace was that it latched onto the suffering community of Riverbrook like a cancer, an unsuspecting cancer, and sucked away at everything till every dollar the people wanted to spend was spent within it. They even had plans to launch a gas station in one of their parking lots, which now would have to be scrapped in light of Bergidan's foolish career move. The thought disgusted Morton, slamming his fist onto his desk with more force than expected from a scrawny accountant. His coffee mug ( With the golden font proclaiming " World's greatest fisherman" ) rattled at the impact.
Bergidan... Mother fucking Harvey Bergidan. Things were swell this fine winter morning, oh how they were so very swell and perfect. The roads had all been plowed for him, the coffee at ten AM did indeed taste like coffee, and the world was looking good. Morton even felt good for his ex wife, whom was now having her third child with the man that was, ultimately, better than he was. The accounts were looking good, the corporate deals were promising, the fiscal intake was enough to send him around the world for the rest of his calculator-operating days. And then, like a swarm of hemmoroids before the big cycle races, Bergidan decides to pull the plug for his own selfish morals. Another slam on the desk with his right fist, this time tottering the mug off the edge to shatter on a filing cabnet. Shards and small piece of white porceline fell to the carpet, like grounded snowflakes. Morton looked at it for a very long time with a tilted head.
In his troubled, troubled mind, Morton was still watching the mug fall off the desk. It rattled toward the edge, seemed to hold it's ground, then lost the proverbial battle with balance and slipped off. The mug spun once, cold coffee from earlier today (the coffee that had tasted so damn good) oozing out like a toffee colored blob into the passing air. When the handle hit the corner of the metal filing cabnet, it broke in two. The blob splashed on the cabnet, the cup itself rained down in assorted fragments to litter the fine green carpet. Jagged pieces, square pieces, pieces that could slit a throat or two, it all rained down and settled. The golden text on the cup was now ultimately askew. Letter were jumbled, some were broken beyond recognition or buried under the mess, but one word did take center stage among the debris.
Morton looked at this word for a very long time, long enough for others on the floor to take lunch and comfortably get back to their working. Infact, many were nearing the end of their shift when the accountant stood up. He did not notice the pain that usually seized up his back. He was not blinded by the darkness of his office. Morton knew what to do, how to solve the problem of the Bergidan Empire. Oh, how he knew. Passing through the office and reaching for the door, Morton took a glance back at the shattered mug - and the message that triggered an answer for everything, his personal moment of clarity.
The word that formed in the rubble was D-EAT-H.