construction machinery, mud dozers and
land pounders put to pasture. All in all, another stunning
candidate for the wrecking ball.
Joe was staring up at one of the taller
buildings. A tottering ruin that had been abandoned to the pigeons,
which were squirming in the blank sockets of windows. There was no
signage of any kind that Alan could see, although he couldn't blame
anyone for not bothering. These places didn't deserve names.
Joe. When Alan thought about it, it was
alarming how little he actually knew about the man. Joe smoked by
the shovelful, ate whatever processed, hydrogenated, and
preservitated foodstuffs his tarantula hands landed on, and
generally made a mess of things. But that was about as far as
Alan's knowledge went. He knew Joe tended to the sickly side, but
that was no secret -- everyone saw Joe retch into the office
wastebasket at some point.
But if personal appearance was a reflection
of inner-spirit -- and it was -- then Joe's spirit, without
question, bespoke a resounding criminal act, something porno
related with a public indecency overtheme. Just look at the street
they were on -- Joe fit right in. He was practically one of them,
one of the savages. And someone like that in a place like this,
that could only lead to one thing: error. And Alan had spent all
last night scraping a dead body off the underside of a bridge -- he
knew firsthand what error could accomplish when it was allowed to
go unchecked.
Alan watched Joe make his way into the
building. An illegal entry, Alan noted. That was private
property.
For now, he decided to watch and wait. He
suspected Joe would be on the move again soon enough. And if that
were the case, Alan would radio Vincent to check this building out
-- let him brave that filth hole.
Alan fiddled with the A/C. God he was hungry.
He could just murder a celery right about now. He could still taste
the morning's leftovers, sour and regrettable in his throat. Did
Susan feed that stuff to Eugene? He began making a mental list:
Foods for Eugene. Nuts, berries, fiber. Flaxes. Brain foods. The
child's processes, they needed to run like a machine.
He looked out the window. This fucking
neighborhood. Call in the air strike.
Alan listened to the drone on the police
radio for a while. A smashup on the expressway, but that was about
it. Even on a relatively quiet day, people were still getting
squashed. That's why you couldn't let your guard down, not even for
a second. You couldn't get lazy, and you couldn't get sloppy.
Alan wouldn't. Every Joe, every homicide,
every bum, every crumb -- let them come. Let them keep piling on
the filth, because Alan would be there to pile it right off. Tit
for tat. And when the day came that Alan did pass from this mortal
realm (purely a hypothetical), well, he was confident his legacy
would continue...through his son and then his son's son, and
onward. Alan's mission would forever be sustained, from one
generation to the next, until the end was achieved. Until light
stayed the dark, life triumphed over death, and humanity mastered,
well, everything. Yes, in time, humanity -- humanity and Alan --
would defeat the very universe, the very heartless and very
arbitrary universe. The universe would be banished to the stockade,
to be spat on and taunted and disgraced. Humanness would rule with
totality. Total design. Total purpose. Total law. Total--
A sheet of pigeons suddenly scattered from
the roof of Joe's building. Alan rolled down his window…he could
hear something, like the throbbing of an airplane, but coming
through the building, microphoned through the bricks.
And then the door on the loading dock popped
open, slamming back flat against the wall. A man scurried out. Alan
saw the limp, the grimy sheen on the piecemeal clothes, the unkempt
hair. Although the man's cap, it shone white and new. Shoplifted,
unquestionably.
Error. That's what this was.
The man stumbled off of the loading dock,
crashing to the ground below. Alan was already out
land pounders put to pasture. All in all, another stunning
candidate for the wrecking ball.
Joe was staring up at one of the taller
buildings. A tottering ruin that had been abandoned to the pigeons,
which were squirming in the blank sockets of windows. There was no
signage of any kind that Alan could see, although he couldn't blame
anyone for not bothering. These places didn't deserve names.
Joe. When Alan thought about it, it was
alarming how little he actually knew about the man. Joe smoked by
the shovelful, ate whatever processed, hydrogenated, and
preservitated foodstuffs his tarantula hands landed on, and
generally made a mess of things. But that was about as far as
Alan's knowledge went. He knew Joe tended to the sickly side, but
that was no secret -- everyone saw Joe retch into the office
wastebasket at some point.
But if personal appearance was a reflection
of inner-spirit -- and it was -- then Joe's spirit, without
question, bespoke a resounding criminal act, something porno
related with a public indecency overtheme. Just look at the street
they were on -- Joe fit right in. He was practically one of them,
one of the savages. And someone like that in a place like this,
that could only lead to one thing: error. And Alan had spent all
last night scraping a dead body off the underside of a bridge -- he
knew firsthand what error could accomplish when it was allowed to
go unchecked.
Alan watched Joe make his way into the
building. An illegal entry, Alan noted. That was private
property.
For now, he decided to watch and wait. He
suspected Joe would be on the move again soon enough. And if that
were the case, Alan would radio Vincent to check this building out
-- let him brave that filth hole.
Alan fiddled with the A/C. God he was hungry.
He could just murder a celery right about now. He could still taste
the morning's leftovers, sour and regrettable in his throat. Did
Susan feed that stuff to Eugene? He began making a mental list:
Foods for Eugene. Nuts, berries, fiber. Flaxes. Brain foods. The
child's processes, they needed to run like a machine.
He looked out the window. This fucking
neighborhood. Call in the air strike.
Alan listened to the drone on the police
radio for a while. A smashup on the expressway, but that was about
it. Even on a relatively quiet day, people were still getting
squashed. That's why you couldn't let your guard down, not even for
a second. You couldn't get lazy, and you couldn't get sloppy.
Alan wouldn't. Every Joe, every homicide,
every bum, every crumb -- let them come. Let them keep piling on
the filth, because Alan would be there to pile it right off. Tit
for tat. And when the day came that Alan did pass from this mortal
realm (purely a hypothetical), well, he was confident his legacy
would continue...through his son and then his son's son, and
onward. Alan's mission would forever be sustained, from one
generation to the next, until the end was achieved. Until light
stayed the dark, life triumphed over death, and humanity mastered,
well, everything. Yes, in time, humanity -- humanity and Alan --
would defeat the very universe, the very heartless and very
arbitrary universe. The universe would be banished to the stockade,
to be spat on and taunted and disgraced. Humanness would rule with
totality. Total design. Total purpose. Total law. Total--
A sheet of pigeons suddenly scattered from
the roof of Joe's building. Alan rolled down his window…he could
hear something, like the throbbing of an airplane, but coming
through the building, microphoned through the bricks.
And then the door on the loading dock popped
open, slamming back flat against the wall. A man scurried out. Alan
saw the limp, the grimy sheen on the piecemeal clothes, the unkempt
hair. Although the man's cap, it shone white and new. Shoplifted,
unquestionably.
Error. That's what this was.
The man stumbled off of the loading dock,
crashing to the ground below. Alan was already out
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