On.
"...special report: tv rots your brain..."
"...Love of money is the root of all evil..."
"...We love in vain narcissistic and so shallow..."
"...Will Gates: The Richest Man In The World..."
"...Jojo's psychic alliance can bring you fame and fortune..."
"...conform to our dress code please..."
Off.
Trent had started off on the right channel.
Trent managed to choke down his average breakfast of bacon and eggs, coke, and toast. And loathe to head out into the wide world of money, he tried to delay it with thought. He thought about the city. Money city.
The city was a scary place. A massive industrialized entity teeming with tons of crazed denizens, each screaming for power. Trent despised it. Didn't hate it, for that was an emotion he'd removed from himself. Though the rancor which pervaded the streets and stores and bars which the whole city seemed to thrive on was anathema to him. The everlasting struggle for financial superiority over others was his bane. The lust and envy that was so extremely
apparent in the actions of each and every individual upset him. And yet here he was looking for employment opportunities in the very heart of his nemesis, downtown, but "you can't change the world," right? Trent dressed in his average garb, jeans, sneakers and a plain T-Shirt and prepared for the day. Time for a 'business lunch' with potential employers.
"...yeah, but you'll never believe the deal I got on stock in Coca-Cola."
"Aww, c'mon Bill, you know you had to suck your father off to get that."
"No, it's true...and anyway, I've got a HUGE problem on my hands."
"Really? What?"
"My wife (stupid bitch), caught me with Alicia a couple nights ago. Damn, she's upset."
"Ouch Bill, I gotta say, I wouldn'a been so careless. Mandy'll never catch me."
"Ahhh, shaddup. Now what the hell am I supposed to do? We've got that big banquet coming up next week and she might not go. How's that gonna look? Any advice...Trent? Trent? You been kinda quiet, eh."
Here he was, scrounging for work in a scum-ridden place that held next-to-nothing for him. He'd have preferred to be his own boss, expressing his creativity anyway he wished, but that was out of the question. Maybe he could work in a place of music, a CD store perhaps. Or maybe he could use art talent somewhere not too restrictive. Oddly enough, there were a few such places in the city partially untouched by the greed. But they were being siphoned away. Trent saw it. Trent had potential. A 20th century renaissance
man. He could do it all. Currently his talents were rotting in desecrated grave of unemployment. They ignore him. His pleas. Instead they force him to move their boxes and type their letters, because they don't know how.
Trent's emotional thread was all knotted and frayed and dry. He'd patched it up now and then, tied make-shift grafts to it. He had willpower. But it didn't matter. He felt empty and hollow and gutless. Desperate to help a society that refuses to help him.
After he finished his 'luncheon' of mindless chatter and inane 'problems', Trent went home. It was a hollow, cavernous home. As most empty homes are. He wasn't afraid or apprehensive, just alone. At one time Trent had plenty of friends. There was Brian Godfray, Trent's drinking buddy, they used to get completely wrecked at least once a week. That was before Trent realized
alcohol was just a pitiful social device that the masses relied upon for relief. There was Martin Clayborne, one of Trent's better friends since grade school, Trent used go to his cottage during the summer. That was before Martin got completely caught up in the 'business world' that every money-grubbing scoundrel in the city eventually succumbed to. There was Nathaniel Raham, Trent's best friend for a long time, he spent more time in Trent's house than he did his own. That was before he went to university and lost sense of who he was due to the overwhelming presence of 'cultured society'.
Trent glanced around his sparse dwelling. He plopped down on his sawn-in-half couch (it wouldn't fit in the door), and glanced at the pictures strewn about his makeshift cinderblock end-table. Beautiful. There was Charmaine Kilzeany, Trent's long-time girlfriend (soul mate?), unfortunately she's long-gone. As Trent sat there on his couch--upholstered melancholy--he remembered her. She had translucent 'slighlty-lighter-than-ocean-blue' eyes. Soft, wispy reddish-brown hair, with little strands that hung over her face without obscuring any details. She had smooth, pristine skin all over, with an occasional dot or blemish which only added to her sensual allure. Her breasts were perfectly rounded and pronounced, but not so that they were out of proportion. She always dressed extremely conservatively, never flaunting her charms for the vulgar masses' eyes, which made Trent feel privileged to be with her and made him treasure every moment he spent with her.
But her astounding physical beauty was only an added bonus. She was for him. She was far and away the closest anyone had ever come to understanding him. She sympathized with him. Understood his logic. Wasn't completely meshed with the society that surrounded her. Oh, she wasn't perfect, but that's not what Trent was looking for. She had contradictions. She wanted excellent health, but wanted to laze her life away. She wanted companionship aside from Trent's (why, he didn't know), yet refused to openly talk to or associate with others. She treated miniscule social problems like compromising philosophical ones, yet it bothered her that she worried too much. But these things are nothing. Trent had no problems with these. As far as he was concerned, he could want for nothing more. She was able to look past his physical 'faults', past his inability to conform to society that made life tough. He glowed when
in her presence. She brought out the absolute best in him. His inappropriately placed cynicism dissipated and his pessimistic views were turned aside. He loved her.
Crash! The picture shattered in his hand. Too much blood trickled out from such a tiny wound. Trent guessed he must have applied excessive pressure during his reverie. Damn. Trent flipped on his least favourite diversion, the television.
On.
"...If we can just convert one man, we can make a difference..."
"...draino, washes everything away..."
"...the stock exchange is up today..."
"...you're all his lambs..."
"...they love you when you're on all the covers..."
"...lighten up on your debt..."
Off.
He trudged slowly into his bedroom, plopped down on the rumpled sheets, and plunged into a dreamless slumber.
Trent awoke, energized to begin the new day. He grabbed a nutri-grain bar "the breakfast for men on the go", and a coffee to go with it, and quickly dressed in a a crisp white button-cuff shirt, black slacks, black leather shoes and an Armani jacket from his closet. Something seemed wrong but Trent couldn't quite place it. He headed out to the street and started walking. He stopped beside a man shining shoes for a paltry fee. Trent decided to partake of the man's services. Trent paid the man and went on his way.
Trent couldn't stand the squalor present throughout the city, like the
shoeshine man. Trent had done him a favour, gave the guy a big tip. He figured he'd head over to the employment office and see if they could help him. The office was a gargantuan palace of concrete and tile. It smelled of disinfectant and electricity. Large fluorescent lights were the only light source. Everything about the place, even the plants, was artificial. They were there to keep the herd in check, to keep them happy. A touch of green plastic in a pot in the corner gave them a sense of nature and comfort and safety. The receptionist was a blighted looking woman in her forties. She was obese, with brutally masculine features and she was dressed in a hazy blue uniform that looked like it'd been through the wash far too many times, yet still remained new. It didn't fit. "May I help you?" she asked, enunciating the catch phrase she'd been programmed to say, lifelessly. "Yeah, I'm looking for work." Trent responded in disgust.
"Browse through this list of available positions, if you see anything that interests you let us know." again monotone.
"Yeah, bye." Trent left the repressing structure.
Unsure of what sort of job he would like, Trent took a seat on a bench to sort through his ramshackle mind. The bench was positioned on a grassy boulevard across from an electronics boutique, a TV's blank screen stared at him through the window. Since it was early morning, some stores were just opening, like this one. The TV flickered.
On.
"...forget your troubles..."
"...norwich union can tell you what to do..."
"...it does the thinking for you!..."
"...what did the survey say?!? Zeeeeeeeero!..."
"...santos' muslim church will improve your life..."
"...when you're not then they love another..."
Off.
Trent quickly moved to the ledge of a nearby fountain facing away from the electronics store. He began looking through the list. The position of 'agent' caught his eye. Trent shook his head vigorously. What was wrong with him? Dressing like a financial toady, considering work as a talent lackey? He threw the list away. His stomach gurgled. He quickly realized he needed food. He headed over to local sports bar, "The Ball Room". He entered the place and was hit by the reek of tobacco and alcohol. He took a seat at the bar and ordered some chicken wings. "Tough day behind the desk?" the bartender asked, seemingly innocently. "No! I don't work behind a fucking desk!" Trent roared, catching the attention of the scant few other patrons. "Relax! Geez...I was just askin'..." the bartender grumbled and moved away.
Trent needed a drink. Calm his nerves. Clear his mind. Wait...he didn't drink anymore, did he?
A cloying feeling of dread crept slowly from the pit of his stomach and up along his trachea until he thought it would choke his brain. Trent was scared. And he knew he had reason to be. He had a shot of whiskey, then he had a double. He guessed he was reverting to his drinking days because of the stress he'd been going through.
Then a calming hand on was his shoulder. "You okay, honey?" a luxuriant feminine voice questioned. Trent turned his head just a hair's breadth and out of the corner of his glance he saw the most stunning woman he'd ever set eyes upon. She had almost ghostly off-white skin (and Trent could see lots of it). She was adorned in an extremely form-fitting forest-green tank-top through which her
prominent breasts graciously protruded. She also sported a tight black satin mini-(mini) skirt which hugged her buttocks and showed practically all of her thighs, he even glimpsed just the slightest hint of hair from beneath the hem of it. The black contrasted attractively with her skin and she looked so gorgeous Trent couldn't help but turn his head. No bra, sickeningly short skirt, lipstick, she wasn't anything like Charmaine..."You okay? Maybe I can help you home." She winked. She took his hand and led him out of the bar, he stumbled after her groggily, trying to focus on his thoughts. Once again, something was wrong. But Trent couldn't place it. Ah well, maybe he'd have fun with...what was her name again?
Trent woke up. What's-her-name was gone. He felt better than he'd ever felt. He figured he'd get out of bed, grab a quick breakfast of a donut and coffee, and watch television like usual. (Was that wrong...?)
On.
"...become one of the team..."
"...price is the difference..."
"...onion power..."
"...call bambi's partyline..."
"...buy one suit get the second half-price..."
"...will leave you low, and blow your mind..."
Off.
Time for a little more surfing.
On.
"...cops and queers, make good-looking models..."
"...get your child the junior executive kit, bring him up right..."
"...send jimmy swaggert your donations..."
"...marilyn manson - teen idol..."
"...free bonus gift for your co-operation..."
"...can't fight the system..."
Off.
Okay, now it was time to go. Trent feeling confident, went straight to the employment office. The large woman was there, but Trent was happy, she was a familiar sight. "Hello," she said "have you decided on a career?"
"I'd like to be an agent."
"Excellent choice, sir. I see you're beginning to understand the way things work. Let me just get the manager." The woman came back with an aging man who seemed to have a smile locked into his facial features, so that anytime he changed his expression the smile would remain stable and the rest of his features would shift around them.
"Hi there. You've come to join the cause?" The man chuckled softly. "My name's William Gaides." Alarm bells started going off in Trent's head. A feeling of despair rose quickly through Trent, causing his eyes to water and hands to shake. This city was evil. This building was evil. This man was evil. Not a kind that was easily detectable, and that was the deceptive beauty of it. There was a sort of ectoplasmic aura emanating from Gaides now, hovering, waiting for something. The man stuck out his hand. The aura took form. The man waited. The wraith-thing tensed, it seemed to be made of putrefying flesh without actually being physically present. Like an apparition, or an illusion of his mind. The man's smile grew wider. It was a calming smile, like a child's warm blanket keeping him company in a crib. The man's teeth gleamed in the fluorescent light. Trent rationalized that he might as well play along, he shook Gaides hand. The semi- present creature swooped down and kissed Trent on the forehead at that instant.
And the alarm bells stopped. The despair disappeared. He blinked away tears, and calmed his nerves. Then Trent started to smile.
"Welcome to The Company, Trent. We've been trying to get you to join for quite sometime. It took far too much effort on our part, but now's your chance to repay us. One of your talents should be able to recruit hundreds." he paused, "Please enjoy our Company Brief." Gaides flicked a nearby button and walked away. There was a television hanging from the roof. "Don't go changing channels now." Gaides guffawed as he was leaving.
On.
"The Company."
"Money."
"Misogyny."
"Conform."
"Greed."
"Sex."
"Sedation."
"Alcohol."
"Truth."
"Lies."
"Lust."
"Industry."
"Welcome to The Company."
Off.