Dirty Man

He was a dirty, dirty man. He hadn’t bathed in weeks. It didn’t matter though, since he’d probably be dead soon anyways. 

Usually he was as hygienic as the next guy, but lately he’d had too much on his mind to worry about taking a shower. He signed his name to the letter he’d written, and then folded it in half and wrote on the back ‘To who it might concern.’ Leaving the letter on the debris-strewn kitchen table, he pushed back his chair, gouging the wood floor yet again. Those damn felt pads on the chairs legs just wouldn’t stick, and the floor was a scratched mess now. He’d written and called the company that made them. He’d told them there was something wrong with the adhesive. They’d sent him a free replacement package of the little round felt pads, but those ones hadn’t stuck either. It was infuriating. Did no one care about quality anymore? Someone was going to have to pay to refinish the floor, and it wasn’t going to be him.

As he stood, his greasy stringy bangs fell over his face as he put on a chest rig full of magazines, followed by a sling and a long, military-style jacket. The jacket pockets held the magazines for the backup pistol on his right hip, and the chest rig had the magazines for the assault rifle he was now picking up from beside the fridge. He clipped the rifle to the sling and then swung it around so it was hidden under the coat, which he then zipped up. He looked at himself in the long mirror by the door, weaponry hidden. He looked lumpy, but it would do. Just a man going for a walk.

It was still dark outside, but it was warm. Christmas lights twinkled around the entryway of the building as he walked out. From the derelict social housing building it was only three blocks to the metro. After the flooding had wiped out his old place and the insurance company said they weren’t going to pay, he’d moved here. Lots of displaced people had moved to the new buildings. ‘Floaters” the media had called them, the folks who got flooded out when the ocean breached the Ballard Locks. The smart money had moved to higher ground long before that happened.

When he got there, the metro was busy, the usual at this early hour of the day. That’s why he’d come here. Soft target, lots of people. Early birds hunting for worms, people heading off to work. Going to toil for the Man, that’s what they were doing. Bloody sheep. He laughed at his own joke. Bloody. Sheep. Heh heh.

‘That’s what you all are!’ He said loudly as he got off the escalator at the top of the platform. ‘Sheeple!’ He blurted. Spittle splooted from his mouth, catching the light.

He was looking for a response, but the people around him on the train platform gave him space, moved away. Nobody made eye contact, he was just another crazy person. He moved to the thicker part of the passengers-in-waiting.

‘BLOODY SHEEPLE, SLAVING FOR THE MAN! WHILE MY FLOOR IS FUCKED!

That got him some glances. More of them were looking at him now, with a few perturbed looks. Some still ignored him, listened to their podcasts or their Christmas music probably, noise- cancelling on. The best thing to do is to just ignore them they were probably thinking. A plainclothes officer from metro security saw him though, and spoke quietly into the mic on her shoulder. Central, Alpha36. 96 at P25, spool and send BD. 

‘DON’T THE SHEEPLE KNOW ITS THE MAN THAT SLAUGHTERS THEM IN THE END? ITS THE MAN!’ Said the greasy man, as he unzipped his long coat. 

The mag-train was arriving in the dark, sleek and silent. It was half full. The people on the platform were relieved they’d be able to get away from the crazy guy, as long as they didn’t get in the same car as him. The train came to a stop, but the doors didn’t open. A few people waited to to get out, looking confused as the man yelled some more nonsense. 

‘ITS ALL PART OF THE PROBLEM! NO ONE CARES ABOUT QUALITY ANYMORE! BLOODY SHEEP!’ 

He swung the rifle from behind his back to the ready position, finger inside the trigger-guard. There were a lot of people here now that the train had arrived, the doors would surely open any second. Some off them were screaming. Bleating. Fucking sheeple. It was time for the slaughter, time to bloody the sheep. 

Everyone on the platform had noticed him now, the commotion catching all the attention. They falling over each other trying to get away in a panic. Some were cut off, with nowhere to run, so they hid behind pillars of concrete and tile. A piercing alarm-like sound was suddenly moving through the fleeing mass, the crowd splitting like the red sea as a waist high four-legged robo-dog ran deftly through the throng, lights flashing, to stop ten feet behind the yelling man holding the gun. The words ‘BD Big Dog’ were on its blue and yellow body. An artificial male voice issued from the robot as  green lasers tagged the thighs and torso of the man.

‘Drop your weapon and raise your empty hands into the air. This is your only warning.’

The man turned, and looked suddenly surprised, and then enraged.

‘YOU’RE THE MAN!’ He yelled, as he turned to point the barrel of his weapon at the robot.

Two sharp pops split the air like gunfire, as high-tensile strands with weighted ends wrapped themselves instantly around the laser-tagged legs and torso of the dirty man. He looked down, looking momentarily puzzled,  before realizing he could probably still fire his gun. He pulled the trigger, but something wasn’t right and nothing happened. 

Another crack came from Big Dog, followed by an angry electric sizzle. Donald Simmons, age 46, went suddenly very rigid before he fell over and emptied his bladder, which contracted firmly upon the justified application of five-point-eight-million volts at fifty milliamps. He made a slightly pathetic moaning sob that would have elicited empathy from any reasonable human, but Big Dog gave no indication of anything at all. Big Dog stood watch, conductive leads still attached by barbs that had hit with enough force to pierce clothing and into skin. Then two transit security officers appeared from their safety positions on the perimeter and quickly removed the incapacitated moaner’s weapons. They cuffed him, searched him, and called it in. Coded chatter  went back and forth on one officer’s radio as she responded.

‘Affirmative, ninety-six is ninety-five and ready for med-tac pick-up.’

A train was arriving at the station. The train doors opened, people got off and got on, flowing around the scene on the platform like it was just another Tuesday morning. Nothing to see here folks, keep moving. Side glances only. Somewhere in the station a busker started playing guitar, chords echoing, oblivious.

Just people headed off to work, going for a walk, going about their business.

Just another day in Lake City Bay.