09-30-2013, 07:07 PM
Ethiopia. What a shithole. Literally. The air actually smelled like shit. The water tasted like shit. And over all shittiness was the country's prevailing export. There was only one redeeming quality to being transplanted out of one slightly lesser shithole to a greater: getting out of the fucking city.
For most of Ethiopia's violent history, all land was constitutionally state owned from border to shitty border, but thanks to CCD pressure and an otherwise shitty world economic environment, the recent Prime Minister decommissioned the long-standing leases the government contracted with tenants and plots were quickly put up for sale. In swarmed the foreign investors. Such as dad's good, ole-fashioned, exploit everything we can company. That was ten years ago. When Silas was a knobby-kneed, gangly thirteen year old. Yeah. The country's greatest ... everything ... was a far cry from Vancouver, but the rising costs of ... everything again ... meant mediocre lifestyles back in BC translated to kings of the mountain over here. Hop on the jet for the weekend? Sure! Rent out St. George's cathedral for a Tuesday? Why not! There's just nothing quite like desecrating holy ground with good old fashioned fuckfests.
Shit went decently for a while. Silas was top dog. Well, among the regular circles at least. By his early twenties, he was absorbed in the investment world himself. Sporting around in slick suits and handmade loafers. Step out of a helicopter 200 km outside the capital and smirk every time some backwood local comes by and lays a wreath at your feet? Hell yes. Simply brush the shit off the petals and tuck the best looking flower in his lapel and he was pretty damn slick-looking. There's just not much to compare to that kind of authentic love. Or maybe it was worship? Hard to tell with those native fuckers.
Silas was sure he looked like some alien douche bag to these goatherders: tall and smooth haired with bright eyes bluer than the fucking blue sky itself. That was the trip when the crew was stuck overnight in some god-forsaken village in the foothills of the Bale mountains. Secondary support was on tap to arrive in the morning with parts. Thank God for satellite phones, but that meant a night alone in the bush with those yokels. C'est la vie, fuckers.
Come morning, the pilots found Silas's hut empty. As he was honored with his own private sleeping arrangements, nobody witnessed what happened. All that was found was the hide of the tent ripped clean through. Silas's clothes still hung on a peg from the night before – nobody would want them to get wrinkled now. His shoes were still tucked beneath the cot. Not even the pottery was disturbed. It’s like he vanished into the wilderness.
After that, things did not go well for this little village. By the way, it no longer exists. Shocking huh.
But that is neither here nor there.
Before they were wiped out, the natives blamed the rarely seen carnivores of the highlands, the Ethiopian redwolf, for Silas' disappearance, but without so much as a single body part, their accounts were written off as superstitious ignorance.
Four months later, when Silas crawled back to Addis Ababa, a scratched up, peeling, broken and calloused version of himself, and pretty much naked as the day he was born – that drew a few stares – he offered no explanation. Other than evidence of a rough couple of months, and the new addition of a leering, carnal smile, he was fine and dandy as ever.
Except his cornfield eyes now swarmed disturbingly yellow. Odd.
Sure he had some shit disease AND fucked up in the head at the same time (or more than before), pretty much everyone thought it would be in his best interest to consult with higher quality medical care than the local MD's offered. No offense, they probably graduated top of their class from Jamaica's finest medical school. Problem was, Silas wasn't too fond of the idea of containment, and hospitals were very confining. After a bit of shock and outrage, and some throats that were nearly strangled and/or ripped out, everyone dropped their whining, and his life picked up where he left off. For the most part.
Fifteen years later Silas sat in a shithole CCD cell somewhere outside St. Petersburg and watching an attractive news anchor report the current events of the day....
FEBRUARY, 2045
"Two Americans escaped from a mid-security prison outside St. Petersburg. They were convicted by the Custody of Intelligence for corporate espionage six months ago and sentenced to imprisonment for an undetermined length of time while the investigation was ongoing. It is unknown who aided their escape."
He chuckled to himself.
Not unknown to everyone.
He raised his voice. It echoed on the four walls caging him in. Goddamn cages. "GUARD!"
The news screen dissolved to a live feed. The interior of a security outpost came into view. A dark skinned woman with shorn platinum hair regarded him. The clock on the wall behind her displayed half a minute to straight-up eight o'clock.
"Warden Svetlana," he said fondly. "An unexpected pleasure. They transfer you to nights?"
"What do you want seven-six-two?" She replied.
Silas shrugged. "How's that boy of yours? Still having nightmares?"
The warden's brow darkened dangerously. How an inmate had knowledge of her personal life disturbed her. Good.
He pictured the lad, frolicking in the snow, oblivious. Silas went on, "Have his eyes turned yellow yet?" He took a step back so the shadow fell upon his face. Golden reflections burned into the camera. She flashed a look of anger.
The woman remained silent, but made a move to cut their feed, so Silas raised a hand, "Oh wait, I forget myself. I had called for a reason after all. I think I'd like to go now. Yes. It is time I should be going." His English was gentlemanly.
The clock on the wall behind Svetlana struck the hour. The sound of something clicking made her swivel in her chair to see what it was. Silas watched, unflinching as fire and the screech of screaming engulfed everything. The feed broke instantly, and the concrete beneath him shook from the force of a distant bomb. How very punctual. Impressive.
His door opened. Silas straightened his jumpsuit and strolled toward freedom. Yes, it was time to be going. Literally.
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER
Silas parked a heavy motorbike outside the dilapidated ruins of an ancient church. The building itself was hardly worth the land it was on. This far from Moscow, only villages populated the Golden Ring. The land wasn't worth hauling away the ruins to rebuild, let alone populate. When it came to ruins, this corner of the ring was a gold-flecked dung heap. The old stones of the church stacked larger piles of gray rock than walls at this point. All the onion domes were caved in. Formerly priceless glass windows were long ago punched out. The iron fencing protecting the grounds were more like metal trellises for the weeds than any sort of useful barricade. The place was a contender for the shithole of the year award.
Silas hefted a log of a leg and kicked the gate. A shower of loose snow fell from the bars, but the worthless piece of shit rusty lock mechanism held. He coiled back and released a second attempt. His frustrated grunt shattered icicles alone, but nobody but the rodents were around to appreciate the roar. And a few other friends, he glanced in the distance and smirked thoughtfully. The gate flew off its hinges.
He strolled onto white grounds, golden eyes surveying everything beneath the moonlight. To his right, the snow crunched as a rabbit sprinted quickly to safety. Frogs croaked around the basin of an ancient fountain now holding only frozen sludge and ancient algae. And beneath the crack of a heavy wooden door, a dim light flickered from within. His stomach rumbled dangerously. They better have real food. Any of that disgusting meat-in-a-dish bullshit and I'll rip out the nearest throat instead.
For most of Ethiopia's violent history, all land was constitutionally state owned from border to shitty border, but thanks to CCD pressure and an otherwise shitty world economic environment, the recent Prime Minister decommissioned the long-standing leases the government contracted with tenants and plots were quickly put up for sale. In swarmed the foreign investors. Such as dad's good, ole-fashioned, exploit everything we can company. That was ten years ago. When Silas was a knobby-kneed, gangly thirteen year old. Yeah. The country's greatest ... everything ... was a far cry from Vancouver, but the rising costs of ... everything again ... meant mediocre lifestyles back in BC translated to kings of the mountain over here. Hop on the jet for the weekend? Sure! Rent out St. George's cathedral for a Tuesday? Why not! There's just nothing quite like desecrating holy ground with good old fashioned fuckfests.
Shit went decently for a while. Silas was top dog. Well, among the regular circles at least. By his early twenties, he was absorbed in the investment world himself. Sporting around in slick suits and handmade loafers. Step out of a helicopter 200 km outside the capital and smirk every time some backwood local comes by and lays a wreath at your feet? Hell yes. Simply brush the shit off the petals and tuck the best looking flower in his lapel and he was pretty damn slick-looking. There's just not much to compare to that kind of authentic love. Or maybe it was worship? Hard to tell with those native fuckers.
Silas was sure he looked like some alien douche bag to these goatherders: tall and smooth haired with bright eyes bluer than the fucking blue sky itself. That was the trip when the crew was stuck overnight in some god-forsaken village in the foothills of the Bale mountains. Secondary support was on tap to arrive in the morning with parts. Thank God for satellite phones, but that meant a night alone in the bush with those yokels. C'est la vie, fuckers.
Come morning, the pilots found Silas's hut empty. As he was honored with his own private sleeping arrangements, nobody witnessed what happened. All that was found was the hide of the tent ripped clean through. Silas's clothes still hung on a peg from the night before – nobody would want them to get wrinkled now. His shoes were still tucked beneath the cot. Not even the pottery was disturbed. It’s like he vanished into the wilderness.
After that, things did not go well for this little village. By the way, it no longer exists. Shocking huh.
But that is neither here nor there.
Before they were wiped out, the natives blamed the rarely seen carnivores of the highlands, the Ethiopian redwolf, for Silas' disappearance, but without so much as a single body part, their accounts were written off as superstitious ignorance.
Four months later, when Silas crawled back to Addis Ababa, a scratched up, peeling, broken and calloused version of himself, and pretty much naked as the day he was born – that drew a few stares – he offered no explanation. Other than evidence of a rough couple of months, and the new addition of a leering, carnal smile, he was fine and dandy as ever.
Except his cornfield eyes now swarmed disturbingly yellow. Odd.
Sure he had some shit disease AND fucked up in the head at the same time (or more than before), pretty much everyone thought it would be in his best interest to consult with higher quality medical care than the local MD's offered. No offense, they probably graduated top of their class from Jamaica's finest medical school. Problem was, Silas wasn't too fond of the idea of containment, and hospitals were very confining. After a bit of shock and outrage, and some throats that were nearly strangled and/or ripped out, everyone dropped their whining, and his life picked up where he left off. For the most part.
Fifteen years later Silas sat in a shithole CCD cell somewhere outside St. Petersburg and watching an attractive news anchor report the current events of the day....
FEBRUARY, 2045
"Two Americans escaped from a mid-security prison outside St. Petersburg. They were convicted by the Custody of Intelligence for corporate espionage six months ago and sentenced to imprisonment for an undetermined length of time while the investigation was ongoing. It is unknown who aided their escape."
He chuckled to himself.
Not unknown to everyone.
He raised his voice. It echoed on the four walls caging him in. Goddamn cages. "GUARD!"
The news screen dissolved to a live feed. The interior of a security outpost came into view. A dark skinned woman with shorn platinum hair regarded him. The clock on the wall behind her displayed half a minute to straight-up eight o'clock.
"Warden Svetlana," he said fondly. "An unexpected pleasure. They transfer you to nights?"
"What do you want seven-six-two?" She replied.
Silas shrugged. "How's that boy of yours? Still having nightmares?"
The warden's brow darkened dangerously. How an inmate had knowledge of her personal life disturbed her. Good.
He pictured the lad, frolicking in the snow, oblivious. Silas went on, "Have his eyes turned yellow yet?" He took a step back so the shadow fell upon his face. Golden reflections burned into the camera. She flashed a look of anger.
The woman remained silent, but made a move to cut their feed, so Silas raised a hand, "Oh wait, I forget myself. I had called for a reason after all. I think I'd like to go now. Yes. It is time I should be going." His English was gentlemanly.
The clock on the wall behind Svetlana struck the hour. The sound of something clicking made her swivel in her chair to see what it was. Silas watched, unflinching as fire and the screech of screaming engulfed everything. The feed broke instantly, and the concrete beneath him shook from the force of a distant bomb. How very punctual. Impressive.
His door opened. Silas straightened his jumpsuit and strolled toward freedom. Yes, it was time to be going. Literally.
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER
Silas parked a heavy motorbike outside the dilapidated ruins of an ancient church. The building itself was hardly worth the land it was on. This far from Moscow, only villages populated the Golden Ring. The land wasn't worth hauling away the ruins to rebuild, let alone populate. When it came to ruins, this corner of the ring was a gold-flecked dung heap. The old stones of the church stacked larger piles of gray rock than walls at this point. All the onion domes were caved in. Formerly priceless glass windows were long ago punched out. The iron fencing protecting the grounds were more like metal trellises for the weeds than any sort of useful barricade. The place was a contender for the shithole of the year award.
Silas hefted a log of a leg and kicked the gate. A shower of loose snow fell from the bars, but the worthless piece of shit rusty lock mechanism held. He coiled back and released a second attempt. His frustrated grunt shattered icicles alone, but nobody but the rodents were around to appreciate the roar. And a few other friends, he glanced in the distance and smirked thoughtfully. The gate flew off its hinges.
He strolled onto white grounds, golden eyes surveying everything beneath the moonlight. To his right, the snow crunched as a rabbit sprinted quickly to safety. Frogs croaked around the basin of an ancient fountain now holding only frozen sludge and ancient algae. And beneath the crack of a heavy wooden door, a dim light flickered from within. His stomach rumbled dangerously. They better have real food. Any of that disgusting meat-in-a-dish bullshit and I'll rip out the nearest throat instead.