Vae Victus - part 1 (work in progress)
i'm going to run with this idea and keep posting up works-in-progress to LJ. you can't stop me, it's a done deal. i'm not really using LJ for anything else these days, anyway.
if you're inclined, you may read, comment, critique, encourage, parody, or make snarky off topic quips to your heart's content. any and all feedback is welcome and very appreciated.
behind the cut, you will find the first 2000 words or so of what i'm guessing will end up a 5000 word story. i've rewritten a fair amount since my last post, and gotten a little further in the plot.
Vae Victis
“This is your fault. Where the hell are you? You think your hands are tied, fine, agreed. Let’s improvise, okay? Don’t you have some sort of mongoloid cousins down here? Like, ones with a surplus of cars in their yards, cars I could perhaps borrow in order to perhaps flee the city? Who is your cousin down here, lady? Speak, goddammit! This is not the time…”
I caught myself in the mirror behind the concierge’s desk and was repulsed. My cowlick was up, my unshaven face gone purple from screaming into my mobile at the rep from Budget Rent-A-Car. My orange silk shirt was soaked through with sweat and spattered with coffee from earlier, when I hurled my Americano at the wall in frustration. I was so disturbed by my appearance that I stopped awkwardly in mid-sentence. I looked insane, and was acting insane. I acknowledged to myself that I needed to get a grip so I hung up.
The rep wasn’t even in this state. I imagined her taking off her headset and frowning out the window onto some dry, sunny corporate park in the Rockies, angsting over her helplessness to rescue me from my nightmare. Service is discontinued in the disaster zone, this cannot be averted. I stood there for several minutes, shoulders slack, fighting back the urge to vomit. In the mirror, I followed a scruffy teen in a pompadour as he walked in out of the rain and stole a dolly full of luggage from the lobby.
Back in my room, I sat on my bed looking out the rain-spattered window, the lush green landscape shimmering from the steady wind. I flopped on my back, letting my head tip over the edge so as to watch the TV upside down. The sound was turned off but I could still make out the frenzy and consequence, in the tickers and in the grave expressions of dignified persons. I’d never heard of such a thing. All the networks ran the same 5 second video of the mayor’s announcement at 15 minute intervals, but I still didn’t believe it. You can’t call for the evacuation of a whole city. This isn’t Somalia. People won’t do it. And they did it anyway, without me.
I’d been in a hurricane before. It was such a non-event that I don’t even remember the year or the name of it. All we got were a couple of downed trees and the neighbor’s dog drowned. We were in the everglades for my mother’s birthday, a week-long imposition on the extended family, with a great deal of time and money invested in tickets, paid time off, gifts for mother, and summer clothing. When the hurricane was announced early in the week, there was a moment of confusion as we deliberated and bemoaned our sorry luck. No one wanted to admit that the reunion was a wash. Mother’s brother Tom, a hard-nut Florida native, loudly insisted that we had nothing to worry about, sucking down beer after beer while pronouncing the fate of the phone lines or the roads. In the end we just moved the party inside the bungalow we’d rented. And nothing bad happened. The power never went out. The food was excellent. I was starving. I hadn’t eaten for almost a day. Room service wasn’t answering and the thought of having to go down and ask for food was too demoralizing. In protest I would drink from the minibar freely, supplemented with periodic americanos from the built-in espresso machine in my suite. The bile pooling in my gut was a hair shirt, to remind God that I was suffering for nothing.
There were two tickers on the screen at the same time, each going in opposite directions. They felt obliged to compliment the headlines with a stock ticker, an obscene display of Wall Street in crisis. The headlines didn’t hang together well, fevered human interest gushing followed by hard nosed business analyses, indecipherable live footage interrupted with the Mayor’s five seconds. Even with the sound turned off, I could tell that they were doing a terrible job covering this story. I wished that whoever was programming that content would get sacked. And then I imagined the producer going to bed that night, tucked in with his blonde wife under his new down comforter and designer duvet. I rolled onto my stomach and began sobbing. At first it was welcome, pathetic, human, but then the anger welled up and I ended up gagging through clenched teeth, and ran to the bathroom to throw up properly.
This deal could have made me. The whole reason I was down there, the result of a year long campaign of ass-kissing, deception, and sacrifice had bought me a shot at something truly unique, inspiring. It wasn’t the money, it was the positioning that killed me. People would be coming to me to get things done. People from all over. I’d have a friend in almost every corner of the globe. I would take important phone calls while bumping along through someone’s private estate on their grandfather’s elephant. I’d be talking with Tokyo and being fed grapes by forest nymphs. And it’s not like I would get a second chance. It’s a fluke that I was even allowed to travel, let alone operate in this kind of executive capacity, and Larry, whose wife I stole and accounts I sabotaged, had figured everything out the minute I got on the plane. I imagined him wooing his wife back with true tales of my bastardly side. And I offered to pay for the room. And then I thought, clearly, reassuringly, no, I will not fucking pay for this room.
“I will not, under any circumstances, pay for this room.” I declared to the concierge.
“Of course you’re not paying for the room. Nobody’s paying.” He replied blankly. “Jesus. All those Blue Hespers. We just bought them. Now they’re toast.”
I went back upstairs. Apart from not eating, I had also not shit for a day, and for the first time since the news broke I was inclined to take one. I had just gotten my shorts down when it occurred to me that there might be issues with the building’s plumbing in a hurricane. I reached back to test the toilet, which flushed cleanly and naturally. Between my legs I watched the blue sanitizer swirl in and down on cue. But I still didn’t want to risk it. I could visualize my turd blasting up and out in a violent surge, with hundreds of older turds following suit in rapid succession. I shut the bathroom door and stopped a towel under it.
I looked out the window onto plaza and parking lot, a handful of cars still present, squatting resiliently in the downpour. It wasn’t so bad, that wind. I’d seen worse living in California. I remember, as a teenager, sneaking onto the Silverado Country Club during a fierce wind storm, all the trees bending and the swimming pools filling with debris. I went to the window and scanned for the swimming pool, which was dark except for the red glow of a lonely Coke machine. I was aware that I still had one coke in the minibar, but still I fingered through loose change on the end table, flicked together two dollars, and headed out.
I was halfway to the stairwell when I realized I had left behind the key card to the hotel room. I screamed. I began slamming my body between the walls, howling, the tears streaming down my face. Possessed, I spun on one heel and lifted my other foot, loosing a deranged battle cry before kicking in a random door.
This seemed to knock me back to my senses. I was momentarily flush with embarrassment, but all guilt vanished as I found the room was empty. Fresh towels on top of the wardrobe, the twin beds tightly made. I checked under the bed and found nothing. I peeked behind the entertainment center and found, amid the accumulated lint and hair, a thick and manly watch. I slipped off my current watch and tried it on for comparison, but my Timex was clearly better than this no-brand chrome monster. Disappointed, I tossed it back behind the TV. And then I had my bright idea.
I remember doing some cursory research on the city. There was a dignified antebellum manor that I wanted to check out. It offered tours during the day and was situated in a posh neighborhood within walking distance from my hotel. It was a small hike, but manageable, and I had been looking forward to the walk. It was located along a row of spectacular Greek revivals with carefully manicured yards. And it occurred to me that some if not all of these homes would be vacant at the moment. And littered with better watches than mine. No repercussions, if I was smart about it. Even if I get caught, there’s probably a certain leniency in the sense that the emergency personnel have much better things to do than futz around with one white male who can’t account for the goodies in his suitcase. After the storm passed, I could rent a car and sell everything on the drive home. If I was smart about it. It was a vile thought, crisp against the blackness of my mood. I wanted to buy a Coke, first.
I walked back to my room and kicked the door in. I wondered what exactly I would be committing out there. Would it be looting, or mere burglary? I liked the sound of looting, it was grander, the sport of frenzied Guals after a triumphant city-sacking. Regardless, the criminal act itself was the easy part. There were all the other considerations to think about, like what to steal and how to fence the goods. These types of homes would likely have certain precautions, like surveillance cameras and alarm systems. I could wear a paper bag on my head until I found some stockings. All the jackpot items like cash and jewels would certainly be in a safe of some kind, so I would probably be hunting for valuable knick-knacks and maybe personal electronics. I would need my suitcase. A raincoat would be nice, though it never occurred to me to bring one. I walked to the bathroom and ripped down the flimsy cream-colored shower curtain, tucking it under my arm. I collected my keys, wallet, and mobile and leaned back to peer out the window one last time. The wind actually seemed to have died down a bit.
As I approached the bottom of the stairwell, I saw the heavy steel door vibrating perceptibly. I peered through the tiny window slot and spotted the Coke machine just a few yards away, resilient, glowing red in the ominous deep gray of the afternoon. I put my hand on the push-bar but did not push. My hand shook and my stomach churned, like I’d ingested a toxic dose of caffeine. I became slightly dizzy for a moment, wobbling slightly as I pulled the shower curtain up over my head. I push at the door to no effect, the wind holding the door firmly in its jamb. I place my foot against the wall and lean into the door, and grimacing, force my way into the parking lot.
if you're inclined, you may read, comment, critique, encourage, parody, or make snarky off topic quips to your heart's content. any and all feedback is welcome and very appreciated.
behind the cut, you will find the first 2000 words or so of what i'm guessing will end up a 5000 word story. i've rewritten a fair amount since my last post, and gotten a little further in the plot.
Vae Victis
“This is your fault. Where the hell are you? You think your hands are tied, fine, agreed. Let’s improvise, okay? Don’t you have some sort of mongoloid cousins down here? Like, ones with a surplus of cars in their yards, cars I could perhaps borrow in order to perhaps flee the city? Who is your cousin down here, lady? Speak, goddammit! This is not the time…”
I caught myself in the mirror behind the concierge’s desk and was repulsed. My cowlick was up, my unshaven face gone purple from screaming into my mobile at the rep from Budget Rent-A-Car. My orange silk shirt was soaked through with sweat and spattered with coffee from earlier, when I hurled my Americano at the wall in frustration. I was so disturbed by my appearance that I stopped awkwardly in mid-sentence. I looked insane, and was acting insane. I acknowledged to myself that I needed to get a grip so I hung up.
The rep wasn’t even in this state. I imagined her taking off her headset and frowning out the window onto some dry, sunny corporate park in the Rockies, angsting over her helplessness to rescue me from my nightmare. Service is discontinued in the disaster zone, this cannot be averted. I stood there for several minutes, shoulders slack, fighting back the urge to vomit. In the mirror, I followed a scruffy teen in a pompadour as he walked in out of the rain and stole a dolly full of luggage from the lobby.
Back in my room, I sat on my bed looking out the rain-spattered window, the lush green landscape shimmering from the steady wind. I flopped on my back, letting my head tip over the edge so as to watch the TV upside down. The sound was turned off but I could still make out the frenzy and consequence, in the tickers and in the grave expressions of dignified persons. I’d never heard of such a thing. All the networks ran the same 5 second video of the mayor’s announcement at 15 minute intervals, but I still didn’t believe it. You can’t call for the evacuation of a whole city. This isn’t Somalia. People won’t do it. And they did it anyway, without me.
I’d been in a hurricane before. It was such a non-event that I don’t even remember the year or the name of it. All we got were a couple of downed trees and the neighbor’s dog drowned. We were in the everglades for my mother’s birthday, a week-long imposition on the extended family, with a great deal of time and money invested in tickets, paid time off, gifts for mother, and summer clothing. When the hurricane was announced early in the week, there was a moment of confusion as we deliberated and bemoaned our sorry luck. No one wanted to admit that the reunion was a wash. Mother’s brother Tom, a hard-nut Florida native, loudly insisted that we had nothing to worry about, sucking down beer after beer while pronouncing the fate of the phone lines or the roads. In the end we just moved the party inside the bungalow we’d rented. And nothing bad happened. The power never went out. The food was excellent. I was starving. I hadn’t eaten for almost a day. Room service wasn’t answering and the thought of having to go down and ask for food was too demoralizing. In protest I would drink from the minibar freely, supplemented with periodic americanos from the built-in espresso machine in my suite. The bile pooling in my gut was a hair shirt, to remind God that I was suffering for nothing.
There were two tickers on the screen at the same time, each going in opposite directions. They felt obliged to compliment the headlines with a stock ticker, an obscene display of Wall Street in crisis. The headlines didn’t hang together well, fevered human interest gushing followed by hard nosed business analyses, indecipherable live footage interrupted with the Mayor’s five seconds. Even with the sound turned off, I could tell that they were doing a terrible job covering this story. I wished that whoever was programming that content would get sacked. And then I imagined the producer going to bed that night, tucked in with his blonde wife under his new down comforter and designer duvet. I rolled onto my stomach and began sobbing. At first it was welcome, pathetic, human, but then the anger welled up and I ended up gagging through clenched teeth, and ran to the bathroom to throw up properly.
This deal could have made me. The whole reason I was down there, the result of a year long campaign of ass-kissing, deception, and sacrifice had bought me a shot at something truly unique, inspiring. It wasn’t the money, it was the positioning that killed me. People would be coming to me to get things done. People from all over. I’d have a friend in almost every corner of the globe. I would take important phone calls while bumping along through someone’s private estate on their grandfather’s elephant. I’d be talking with Tokyo and being fed grapes by forest nymphs. And it’s not like I would get a second chance. It’s a fluke that I was even allowed to travel, let alone operate in this kind of executive capacity, and Larry, whose wife I stole and accounts I sabotaged, had figured everything out the minute I got on the plane. I imagined him wooing his wife back with true tales of my bastardly side. And I offered to pay for the room. And then I thought, clearly, reassuringly, no, I will not fucking pay for this room.
“I will not, under any circumstances, pay for this room.” I declared to the concierge.
“Of course you’re not paying for the room. Nobody’s paying.” He replied blankly. “Jesus. All those Blue Hespers. We just bought them. Now they’re toast.”
I went back upstairs. Apart from not eating, I had also not shit for a day, and for the first time since the news broke I was inclined to take one. I had just gotten my shorts down when it occurred to me that there might be issues with the building’s plumbing in a hurricane. I reached back to test the toilet, which flushed cleanly and naturally. Between my legs I watched the blue sanitizer swirl in and down on cue. But I still didn’t want to risk it. I could visualize my turd blasting up and out in a violent surge, with hundreds of older turds following suit in rapid succession. I shut the bathroom door and stopped a towel under it.
I looked out the window onto plaza and parking lot, a handful of cars still present, squatting resiliently in the downpour. It wasn’t so bad, that wind. I’d seen worse living in California. I remember, as a teenager, sneaking onto the Silverado Country Club during a fierce wind storm, all the trees bending and the swimming pools filling with debris. I went to the window and scanned for the swimming pool, which was dark except for the red glow of a lonely Coke machine. I was aware that I still had one coke in the minibar, but still I fingered through loose change on the end table, flicked together two dollars, and headed out.
I was halfway to the stairwell when I realized I had left behind the key card to the hotel room. I screamed. I began slamming my body between the walls, howling, the tears streaming down my face. Possessed, I spun on one heel and lifted my other foot, loosing a deranged battle cry before kicking in a random door.
This seemed to knock me back to my senses. I was momentarily flush with embarrassment, but all guilt vanished as I found the room was empty. Fresh towels on top of the wardrobe, the twin beds tightly made. I checked under the bed and found nothing. I peeked behind the entertainment center and found, amid the accumulated lint and hair, a thick and manly watch. I slipped off my current watch and tried it on for comparison, but my Timex was clearly better than this no-brand chrome monster. Disappointed, I tossed it back behind the TV. And then I had my bright idea.
I remember doing some cursory research on the city. There was a dignified antebellum manor that I wanted to check out. It offered tours during the day and was situated in a posh neighborhood within walking distance from my hotel. It was a small hike, but manageable, and I had been looking forward to the walk. It was located along a row of spectacular Greek revivals with carefully manicured yards. And it occurred to me that some if not all of these homes would be vacant at the moment. And littered with better watches than mine. No repercussions, if I was smart about it. Even if I get caught, there’s probably a certain leniency in the sense that the emergency personnel have much better things to do than futz around with one white male who can’t account for the goodies in his suitcase. After the storm passed, I could rent a car and sell everything on the drive home. If I was smart about it. It was a vile thought, crisp against the blackness of my mood. I wanted to buy a Coke, first.
I walked back to my room and kicked the door in. I wondered what exactly I would be committing out there. Would it be looting, or mere burglary? I liked the sound of looting, it was grander, the sport of frenzied Guals after a triumphant city-sacking. Regardless, the criminal act itself was the easy part. There were all the other considerations to think about, like what to steal and how to fence the goods. These types of homes would likely have certain precautions, like surveillance cameras and alarm systems. I could wear a paper bag on my head until I found some stockings. All the jackpot items like cash and jewels would certainly be in a safe of some kind, so I would probably be hunting for valuable knick-knacks and maybe personal electronics. I would need my suitcase. A raincoat would be nice, though it never occurred to me to bring one. I walked to the bathroom and ripped down the flimsy cream-colored shower curtain, tucking it under my arm. I collected my keys, wallet, and mobile and leaned back to peer out the window one last time. The wind actually seemed to have died down a bit.
As I approached the bottom of the stairwell, I saw the heavy steel door vibrating perceptibly. I peered through the tiny window slot and spotted the Coke machine just a few yards away, resilient, glowing red in the ominous deep gray of the afternoon. I put my hand on the push-bar but did not push. My hand shook and my stomach churned, like I’d ingested a toxic dose of caffeine. I became slightly dizzy for a moment, wobbling slightly as I pulled the shower curtain up over my head. I push at the door to no effect, the wind holding the door firmly in its jamb. I place my foot against the wall and lean into the door, and grimacing, force my way into the parking lot.