fuck this job.com

It’s late when Simon returns to his apartment building. He’s never done so much physical labor in one day. His hands feel raw. He wonders if this is what people call “blistered?”

He had helped to unload a truck load of food that had been donated by local markets. Then he had done what he could to set up a new tent and carry some old tables inside to use as a kind of distribution center to hand out the food.

“Don’t try to solve the problems of the world, Simon. Just look in front of you, and put out your hands, and do that. Whatever is in front of you, do that,” Josh had told him while they carried bags of rice off of the truck.

Damn! Motherfucker damn!

Simon looks at the credit card bill and can’t believe his eyes. Another bogus charge! He gives the mailbox door a slam and then feels guilty about it. He shouldn’t take it out on the mailbox. But what should he do? Just put his hands out and do what’s in front of him?

He trudges up the stairs and, finally, gets to flop down on the old sofa and just breathe. The offending bill is in his hand.

Simon uses the credit card in what his mother would call a “responsible” manner. He charges internet service and a few “emergencies” on the card, but he tries to pay off the total in full every month. It was over a year ago when his older sister Marion had asked him to help his little niece buy buying a magazine subscription to support her school. He subscribed to People—although Simon really didn’t care for the magazine, it was for a good cause.

But he had given his credit card number. That’s when the trouble began. He began to receive other magazines, that he hadn’t ordered, and the charges began to appear on his credit card bill. He called the credit card company but they refused to help. They told him that they couldn’t do anything. He was amazed at this. He called the company that was billing him for magazines that he hadn’t ordered and he found that he was dealing with Time Warner—a huge media company.

No human being answered the phone. Everything was done by computerized voices. Simon spent hours on the phone trying to cancel the subscription, and, eventually, he succeeded. Four hundred dollars in charges were removed from his card.

Two months had passed before the charges began to show up again. Simon tried to call Time Warner but could only get a robot on the phone. It was one of the little frustrations in life that Simon had been dealing with as best he could.

So, today, the bill had arrived with two new charges. Simon had expected them. He had begun receiving Us and InStyle magazine—throwing them away when they arrived. He sometimes found that his little mailbox was stuffed full because of huge, obnoxious fashion magazines full of skinny girls and smelly perfume ads.

The credit card bill slips from Simon’s fingers as he begins to drift away. It has been a very long day. His head is spinning. Too many things have happened. It is too much. Too exhausting. Think of it. Using little children like that. Outrageous. A huge corporation stealing like common thieves.

Suddenly Simon’s eyes open up and his heart beats faster. A light has come on! Simon looks cautiously around the room.

Not again.

He’s not in his room. It’s some other room, somewhere.

Simon is in the lobby of an office building. When he sits up, he can feel the stylish Scandinavian furniture creaking under his weight.

“It’s not me,” Simon thinks.

“It’s HIM...”

Simon lifts himself easily and lifts his right arm. In his hand is a huge knife. On the blade is inscribed a single Latin word—“Paritus.” Simon feels himself lifting up from the floor and he shuts his eyes as he elevates up through the steel and concrete of the building to the highest floor.

There he finds a man working late. He has three laptop computers—two PC’s and a Mac—shining brightly in the darkened room. He’s talking quietly but firmly, on a cell phone. He drops the phone to the floor as he looks up and sees Simon. A squawky little voice keeps bleating from the phone. The man gazes silently at Simon for quite some time.

Then, in some way, his mind begins to speak to Simon while his mouth is silent.

“You’re here for justice? Is that it? You want justice? Well, let me tell you about justice. We live in a world where the only justice is what you can take! There is no God! That stupid myth has caused more suffering than we could cause with a billion phony magazine subscriptions. You’re pathetic. You think you can just float in and out of my mind? Do you think you scare me? You don’t. Not a damn bit. I’m not going to roll over and beg for mercy from some hallucination! My life is founded on one simple principle—that the spoils go to the victor. That might makes right. What do you think built this great tower? Good intentions? Kindness? This was built with strength. Power. That’s what rules the world. Natural selection. The survival of the strongest. Always. The strong should overpower the weak. They owe it to them, to help them to grow stronger!”

Simon removes the man’s head from his shoulder’s with one quick swipe of the knife. He stands for a moment, looking at the head falling onto the desk. Damn, he got tired of listening to that garbage! Anyway, it looks as if he’s proven the fellow right, in some way. The strong has cut short the speech of the weak--fortunately.

Simon feels the world spinning.. He blinks his eyes. The familiar lamp is there. The familiar apartment is back. He pulls his hands up to his face and looks at them with his eyes wide, looking closely at the fingernails.

Blood?

A tapping sound is coming from his door. He slowly swings his feet to the floor and stands up. Then he rushes into the kitchen to wash his hands. He hears the knocking at the door again.

(TO BE CONTINUED)