A simple job

[Jaxen Marveet]

Boda

When Boda departed the theater, he wasn’t checking over his shoulder. His mistrust of society was accepted decades ago, and for that reason, he assumed someone was always out to get him. In that light, he also accepted that he would not live his life in fear: the exact opposite, actually. He lived each day as though it were his last because one of these days it would be. Until then, he was fucking alive.

To that end, he quite contentedly drove himself back and forth from the city. One of the reasons he lived in the outrageous turn-of-the century house in the Golden Ring countryside was for the sole purpose of a long commute. Like the sumptuous curves and flashy exterior of his home, the car that pulled to the property was carved from a silhouette of reckless abandon. About fifteen years ago, a new car manufacturing trend swept the 2030’s. All the classic companies of Italy, the UK, Germany and Russia released vintage replica models of their 1930's lines. As soon as Boda saw his first one, he purchased the very vehicle that rumbled up the drive to the garage: a car with swooping front arches, a silvered grill, two windscreens, roaring pipes and white-wall tyres.

Normally, he would park in the garage and enter the house from inside. This time, however, an alert warned him about 5 minutes out that there was a visitor on his front porch: however the image of the man’s face was obliterated from the camera. Given the events of the night, he didn’t expect a government agent to knock on the door and politely request to arrest him. Having been arrested dozens of times in his life, usually for propagating anti-nationalist ideals that verged (theoretically) on treason, disunity, and mongering, a humorless grin pushed the accelerator to the floor. He rolled to a stop in front of the house in clear view of his visitor.

A slamming car door announced his arrival, assuming the dismantled muffler didn’t, and Boda Oszkar emerged. A grumble knuckled at the small of his back a moment as his muscles lengthened, growing older was another resistance he would fight to the end of his days. House recognizing his approach, lights on the exterior flushed anew, illuminating the delicate paint-job and carvings of the historical architecture.
“Ho there. I’m too tired to be arrested tonight. So you can go about your business and come back tomorrow,” he called as he boldly strolled the walk-way, flinging his hands dismissively as he did.

Grizzled eyes only slightly wary for the man in the suit met his visitor. Slender cane (for decoration more than functionality) swirled theatrically at his side, but knurled hands were ready to wield it defensively if he had to. It wouldn’t be the first time he smacked some young shit-head fuller of himself than he ought to be.