Open the Vox

Open the Vox

Open the Vox

A Reactive approach to Enlightenment

You can scroll the shelf using and keys

Dystopia for a Me and Utopia

December 21, 2016

WORKING ROUGH DRAFT ON MY BOOK: The First of a Series of Books about this Character; and the conflicts he faces with man, technology and Society at different levels.

Feel free to comment below.

Chapter 1: Tomorrows Reality

It was that magic time of day when the sun sets and the whole world is drenched in Sepia Tone.  The Golden water colored sun saturated the tiny one story bungalow. But Eight Three Eighty Eight was happy with his life. His wife smiled at him. Her slim cheek bones and light blonde hair taking on brilliant tones in the magic of the hour.

“Daddy!” says a the voice of a young man. His arms tightly wrapped around the legs of 8 3 88. He smiles: admiring how much his son has grown.

“Alright honey” says the soft voice of his wife. “Have a great day at work”.

“SIMULATION OVER” appears above the white capsule of his sleeping chamber.

8 3 88 wakes up alone inside the isolation pod assigned to him.

“Good mourning” replies a cheerful robotic female voice.”Great news, 8-3-88! You only owe the SpaceMart Company $800,033 on your Birth Loan. That’s less than twenty years away! Better start planning your future now!”

“Maybe I’ll live on the surface with the Tibetan Monks- or- in the woods like an outdoors mans!” thinks 8 3 88.

“You now owe the SpaceMark Company $800,034. For a one month subscription to free thoughts unlimited, you’ll not only be able to think freely without charge, but also be able to better block incoming thought-ads throughout the day. Giving your free thoughts more depth and clarity. And all for the reasonable price of $1,000 Monthly- some additional fees may apply”.

“Ok” thought 8-3-88. “I’d like try it for one month”.

Chapter 2: And the System Works

8-3-88 wasn’t allowed to own paper. He never learned to write. He picked up what he did from audio books in his school library. He didn’t know the titles or the authors; he went by instinct and cover design.

It was here he learned to meditate. His ability to clear his mind became a form of protection against the sensory system installed throughout the facility sensitive enough to pick up a thought, record it, save it; and even sophisticated enough to catch key words like slavery, revolution & help; and key phrases like “Save Us God”, “Help Me” and “Theirs got something more to all of this?” and message them to the Eyes and Wombs depending on the level of disciplinary action.

But to the naked eye, they looked like tall thin strands of hair; and when you made a thought; they create a wave form; and into the system it now goes. Creating a shadow you; where they know where you will be before you get there.

If you make a face, they will photograph it, find the closest emotional match in their data base; where its saved for demotions. If you’re heart starts racing. They’ll measure that as well. And if you make a scene. They’ll video tape it as evidence. Where all of this information becomes you. And every time you try to grow. They dig deep enough back until they’ve found the dirt necessary to defame you. And as a kid, they don’t teach you that this is how the system works, they leave you to figure it out on your own.

Chapter 3: Rude Awakening

“Wake up Goofy!” shouts Russ Steel, his robot foreman and union representative. “God, why are you so goofy, 8-3-88? God, you so goofy Dawg!”

8-3-88 looked up at the bright light of the barracks. “Get up 8-3-88. You have five seconds to get your goofy ass out of that bed before I call in Human Resources”.

8-3-88 shoots out of bed: all eyes on his foreman.

“We need you on heavy duty today, 8-3-88. We need at least 200% production today- at the very least”.

8-3-88 nodded his head. This meant punishment if he didn’t meet quota. That’s twelve hours a day digging for crystals near the center of the earth using nothing but pick axes and shovels.

8-3-88 follows his foreman bare ass down the bleak white hallway. He passes the women’s barracks. The Male Wombs can be seen standing above the open lids of the pods. Their eyes rolling with a goofy look on their face.The familiar slurping sound heard during this mourning ritual. He thought nothing of it.

Someone once did. Questioning the morality of it all. And was ritually fired. Human Resources cloaked in black. Came in. Handed him his pink slips. And he was banished to the cities fringes with the booms and the androids. Never seen again.

Which sounded great. Except imagine Detroit, Michigan with 20 foot walls and armed soldiers. It was the world of scrappers, hustlers, pimps, thieves and petty dealings. And considering his was to obey orders until he was old enough to work. Where they stuck him on the hardest jobs. Rewarding him with more work and even less growth. 8-3-88 was stuck.

The fringe world of the city above was a dangerous world- full of mystery. He was ill trained and empty handed.

If it wasn’t for his self motivation. He never would of learned his current job. And despite his efforts. They left him in a department they were trying to get rid of. One man in a five man department.

The melody to “Come On, Be Happy!” is heard. 8-3-88 drops to the floor. Human Resources rushes in: full riot gear with Doberman Pincers and billy clubs swarming the barracks.

“Get up Goofy”, yells one of the guards.” Why are you so Goofy. Dawg?”

Nothing happened. All was silent.

Then a member of Human Resources grabs the man from his pod.

” I don’t wanna live this way anymore!” he cries.

The music turns back on as they stand the man up on his feet before beating him back down with their clubs.

“Nuff, now!” says the Head of Human Resources. The music stops. “Keep em lookin’ shapely. He no close to retire age. Don’t want da Corporation to lose itsa vestment”.

The man scrambles back up to his feet. He stumbles. Reaching out to human resources who efficiently move out of his way. He falls face first on the hard tile floor before coughing up blood and chunks of lung.

“You see him” says the Head of Human Resources. “He good to work. Weez be exppectin’ at least 100% outta yeah Taday, 05.29.17”.

Chapter 4: My Boss is a Robot.

“My body hurts. My whole body hurts”… he thinks looking over his shoulder to find the robot assigned to him flirting with two of the girls from the office. “Damn Robots lazier than me” he thinks. ….”But what can I do?” he thinks to himself. “It’s the bosses baby”. He bent over and felt a sharp pain shoot up his back. “Plus he’s the Foreman, Union Representative and has complete authority in my department” he thinks. “Well” he thought 8-3-88. “This product isn’t going to move itself”. He straps the harness to his torso and begins to haul the massive concrete pallet across the floor little by little.

“Hey girls, check this out” shouts Russ. Russ rolls his way over to 8-3-88, moves him out of the way and nonchalantly moves the pallet over to the designated area before rolling back over to the girls for a few more laughs. 8-3-88 stands there with his harness dangling from his hands alone in the big empty space. He looks over his other shoulder to find the big boss, Jefferson Roosevelt Markowitz, mean mugging him. He runs over to the pallet and gets back to work. “Only a few more hours” he thinks. “Only a few more hours”.

Chapter 5: In the Office, Now!

“In the office now, 8-3-88!” shouts Russ. His robot Foreman and Union Representative.

8-3-88 sets down the box he’s loading into the beam cannon for light particle shipment to the moon. It’s complicated machinery made easily usable with a simple click of a button.

It was a neat device. It turned raw minerals into their respected color of the spectrum before launching that spectrum pattern to the moon who in turn sends it out to the next closest fixed planetary body.

8-3-88 could be seen rushing full sprint to the office. He remembered a funny story about why they quit using asteroids after accidentally launching several pounds of Foreign Gold from the second World War into the far reaches of space.

But every second was a tally against his production score; the resume of the workforce; but the sprint to the office was over thirteen miles; not an easy task for even the best runner. He ran into the tall smokey black jagged building built inside the ruins of an ancient volcano deep under the surface of the Earth.

In the office sat Production Manager Jefferson Roosevelt Markowitz, his son Area Supervisor Washington Adams Markowitz, and his Son Union Secretary and Treasurer Reagan Obama Kennedy Markowitz; and Jefferson’s robot, Union Representative and Foreman Russ Steel; all behind their large, freshly polished Obsidian desk. 8-3-88 had to squint to see them seated along the other end of the room.

“We need to talk 8-3-88” shouts Jefferson.

8-3-88 lifted his head up. He felt uncomfortable. Looking around, he notices their crooked teeth all bent and twisted. Reagan’s teeth are so bad, he notices three rows; as if years of degeneration has begun the long process of return to the reptilian marshes from once they crawled.

He held his composure out of fear of having his thoughts recorded by the corporation to be used against him in situations such as the one he’s found himself in.

“We heard you had a thought this mourning” barks Jefferson. “What is your thoughts on that?” He says leering through 8-3-88.

“I also signed up to a free months subscription to Free Thoughts” shouts 8-3-88.

“Yes” barks Jefferson. “That’s why we brought you in here”.

8-3-88 lowers his head. His eyes on the floor.

“Thoughts are dangerous” shouts Washington. “That’s why us smart rational thinkers get paid the big bucks”.

“It’s just that I heard over my mourning thought patterns that I should start thinking about my future- and then they charged me for it when I did. So I thought”-

“That’s the thing 8-3-88” shouts Washington. “You’re still fresh. It’s retarded to think that far ahead. We don’t even think that far ahead- so why should you?”

“You’re not paid to think” barks Jefferson. “Your paid to do what we think is best for the corporation. A Corporation funded by my great uncle Sir. General Clinton Bush Markowitz, the 3rd, Esq”.

“Goofy ass” screams Reagan. “Probably thinks he’s better than us. We went to college- on the surface. We did things right. We earned this job!”

8-3-88 stood their with his head down. He felt like crying; but stood their silent as his whole body shook. He went to sit down.

“Stand up, Goofy!” screams Reagan. “You’re not on light duty”.

8-3-88 stands their wobbling. His energy drained. He felt the muscles all over ache. His heart sank. He could hardly move straight; let alone think with any kind of clarity. So, he weaved their silently; waiting patiently for this abuse to finally be over”.

“It also says you thought about asking for a raise” shouts Washington.

“That was over a month ago” whimpers 8-3-88. “I’ve been here for almost 10 years; and it’s just me and Russ in our department now; and Russ is already the Foreman; and so I thought maybe about asking for Department Lead pay; just a dollar extra an hour”.

“You’re a lousy worker, 8-3-88” says Washington. “According to our records, Russ needed 200% production today and you’re only at 198% as we speak. Nope. Make that 197%”.

They leer at him in disgust. He was becoming a nuisance. Reagan was especially upset, having missed his afternoon favor from one of the female runners under the chain of his command for this meeting; which was starting to prove a waste of his time.

“I’m sorry” whimpers 8-3-88. “I’m trying my best”.

“Well” barks Jefferson. “You have the next year to think this all through while you’re mining for crystals. That’s it. You can go now. Enjoy the rest of the day”.

“In all fairness sir” whimpers 8-3-88. “My production is still higher that Russ and that has to account for something?”

“What a mouth on this Goof Ball” screams Russ. “He’s Goofy boss. I told yeah, right?”

“We’ll have to look into that; and two years should give us enough time to look over our investigation” barks Washington.

8-3-88 stands their awestruck.He grabs onto the wall as he attempts to stumble towards the door.

“Get your grubby little hands off our walls, Runner! We just had this office cleaned last summer; and our budget can’t afford it for another fifteen years! In fact, we’re deducting that from you’re pay. In fact, we’re holding onto your paychecks until further notice” barks Jefferson.”Life isn’t fair, Runner; so think about that while you enjoy the rest of the day”.

8-3-88 stumbles around, limping towards the door.

“Oh, that reminds me, 8-3-88” shouts Washington. His voice sounding warm.

8-3-88 turns around with a glimmer of hope.

“Merry Christmas”.


What do you think?

Please keep your comments polite and on-topic.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: