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By: Ben (Allegory. It's some sort of kind of story where everything has significance in the story's main point. EVERYTHING. I bullshitted through it, thought this story sucked. Reading it again, it's actually not too bad. Not TOO BAD. Still kind of corny. DiabloCita!? What the hell?!) All lives are as leafs in the wind, they all wander, aimlessly, kept from falling by some unseen force. Not like there were many leaves, or trees for that matter in the smog-wreathed city of Diablocita. A few small trunks bearing fragile little leaves, slowly disappearing as the winter wind carried them to a silent death on the sidewalks that strangled their mother tree. Nature was not welcome in the domain of man. It didn�t matter, staying alive was a bit more of a concern. Unhappy people grumbled as they went to their menial jobs. The successful people would never live is such a rat hole. Living near your workers was as bad as associating with them. Still, life went on, not happily but it always finds a way of sloshing through the mud. It was afternoon now, the sunlight died an odd shade of yellow by the thick green cloud that hung above the city. It was a short workday today, but just enough time for a final delivery. A small form darted between the maze that the people formed, an occasional bystander jumping away in fear at the boy on the black skates. He moved with practiced ease, a confident smile on his face that only widened at the fear and anger he left in his wake. Malcom Chance was on a delivery and not even the Devil himself could stop him. A boy of merely 14, he was abandoned by his parents to a rundown orphanage that schooled him enough for him to learn to read, speak and write. It was soon shut down, and Malcom learned little past that. So the working class was kept as the working class and the richer children learned and became richer. The cycle of life goes on. Diablocita was a shoddy capital city any way it was looked at. The only thing that remained remotely clean was the giant black obelisk at the center of the city, jutting up like some garish shining talon. The Citadel, as it was called, the center of the military dictatorship that reigned supreme. The only thing worse than a dictator is a group of dictators. Fresh out of the army, no less. Stupid people with big guns can easily overthrow a democracy. People hated it, but dared not oppose, the military was fiercely loyal and would happily cut through millions of their fellow citizens. Stupid people with big guns can easily start a massacre. And that�s who ran the government, stupid people with a number of large guns and stupidier peons to shoot them. No one made a stand, life became harder and harder and the junta that controlled the government simply sat on a throne of working men�s corpses and drank of working men�s blood. Malcom Chance was making a delivery, and he could care less about his home being run by stupid people with big guns. A �No Trespassing� sign swung slowly in the wind generating by a boy on black skates. Malcom Chance was making a delivery and signs were simply words on pieces of metal. He ran blindly onward, skidding into a building and disappearing within. In and out in just a few scant minutes. Malcom Chance knew his job, knew his role in life and wanted to know nothing more. It is truly disgusting that a human can be beaten down a smile stupidly through it. Malcom Chance was a dog. Home, for Chance as well as quite a few other working children, was a cramped apartment that could not possibly have been more chaotic. A few kids were let stay home to keep the house from not collapsing with the waves of waste that assaulted it. They had the hardest job imaginable, and they would never be paid for it. Malcom skated into the hovel, with a few of the smaller children pointing out various deeds they had done through the day, both good and evil. They looked up to him, he was one of the older children of the house, excluding the 22-year-old Catrina, who pretty much reigned supreme in the household. After some feigned interest with the little children, Malcom headed for the soiled mattress that was his bed and lay back, smiling at the ceiling, smiling his stupid, contented dog smile. The whole household gleamed with the dog smile. They had no representation, no rights, no safety, no assistance, no freedom, but they wagged their tails and obeyed their masters. The city of Diablocita was a kennel for the most stupid breed of dog�human. The only person that dared shattered the happiness of lost hope was a woman named Eve Detsberi, the cat in the house of dog. Her eyes gleamed with interest and thought, her mouth never seeming to smile, her mind too full of knowledge to let the cloud of happiness obstruct her vision. She read in her spare time, and dogs cannot be smart. Smart people worried the government as they racked their empty minds for a better solution that just killing randomly. Smart people can dodge. The cat was disliked by the dogs, young and old, except one. The popular dog named Malcom Chance. Malcom had secretly loved her since he had found the difference between boy and girl. The cat slinked towards his room, smiling as he suddenly sat up straight and put on an attentive face and a charming smile. �Malcom,� she said, taking a seat next to him, forcing a gulp from Malcom and adding to his nervousness, �I want to talk to you.� Malcom nodded vigorously, his forehead suddenly gleaming with a nervous sweat. �S-sure! What about?� The intelligent never fit into their supposed niche in society. They wanted more, they would never be content. With intelligence comes the curse of eternal emptiness. Malcom listened to Eve�s speech with as much attention as he could muster. The cat was clever and could easily manipulate the mind of someone not only so devoted, but nieve as well. Intelligence is the right to place fools into slavery for the smart. By the end, Malcom believed every word she said. The underground rebel organization known as The Ivory Hand had just received a new member. Eve happily took Malcom along with her to a meeting later in the afternoon. The hall where the meetings were held was exceedingly elegant, thanks to the volunteer efforts of many rebels who had raised the organization to the status of a cult. The hall was completely white, with large pillars that looked to be made out of ivory squeezed into the corners. Hundreds of unfolded metal chairs were arranged in somewhat even rows, a long strip of blue carpet cutting the mass of chairs into two square parts. The conical ceiling of the hall was painted with large patches of uneven blue, making it look like the blue sky unseen to any of the city residents. The eternally silent metal crowd faced a white stone podium, with the rebel�s symbol taking up most of the wall behind it as well as the front of the decorated podium. The symbol was a picture of a dark city, with the Citadel rising above all, a hand of shadow pushing outward from its narrow tip. A equally large hand made of a sparkling white material emerged from the lowest parts of the city, meeting with the dark hand in resistance against its pushing down. Voice suddenly spewed forth from the double white doors as they spread open, letting in a flood of people that flowed between the rows, talking, laughing and yelling as they took their seats. A few streams of people set off to lean against the walls, a bewildered Malcom and the Eve shoving him forward in the midst of the rapid flow. The room hummed with conversation for a while before they quieted. The leader entered with the fanfare of many hundred cheering people. He wore an astoundingly clean white suit and a silvery tie, matching the clean white of the hall. A disarming smile was plastered on his face, curling upward and creasing the edges of his dark eyes. This was Damien Gild, the leader, the spokesman, the �god.� How easily he had swept up their confidence and love, with a handsome face and a clear, strong voice, he was the definition of a leader. Slick words can earn trust, but add a handsome face and someone can earn the trust of millions. Everyone clapped and cheered, including Eve, who gazed at him lovingly. Malcom knitted his brow in worry at her face and turned to Damien, who still smiled warmly until the crowd calmed down. The man�s tongue matched the tie perfectly as he spewed out a speech that could inspire the coldest of hearts. Malcom�s simple mind and its limited capacity seemed to work as a shield against the speech. He didn�t cheer, he didn�t clap, he simply watched, as a dog would if forced to try to read. Damien took a sip of water and waited for the cheers to die down. �Men and women, we have sat back too long! Our might is greater than that of the Citadel and its devils! We make a stand now! Are you with me?� Damien�s eyes seemed to darken as the cheers rattled the room. Damien headed down the isle, proudly walking over the carpet, followed by a giant mass of cheering and yelling followers. Malcom was pushed along with the flow, as driftwood carried in the rough waters. The walk was a long one, but the crowd seemed to grow as more citizens joined it. The people that were dogs growled and walked away from the cats, wondering why they would go to such trouble. No one would strike at them, but only a select few would help them. The sun was slowly going down, casting a last golden ray, tainted by the smog and turned evil. Shadows began to crawl over the city, now bereft of cats with only few dogs wandering the streets. They flowed around the crowd of hissing cats, slowly closing in as they approached the Citadel. Some of the followers had insisted on putting Damien in the middle of the flow, in fear of his destruction, but he bravely wished to meet whatever may befall his people. So selfless and strong, the ideal leader, the perfect leader, handsome, smart and with piercing dark eyes. Just perfectly fitting the idea every cat had conjured of a mighty leader. The dog swept up in the current of cat forced his way to Eve. �Eve, there�s gonna be trouble�we should leave.� Malcom spoke timidly and nervously, whimpering like the dog he had become. Eve shoved him away furiously. �Then leave, you stupid coward. Just stand back and let the smart save the world.� Eve spat at him, turning back to follow her beloved and perfect leader. She might as well have been wagging her tail and grinning obediently. Damien approached the entrance angrily, pounding on the metal surface furiously. �Your rule has been rejected! Let us in!� Damien roared out, making sure everyone heard him and wagged their tails happily. The door opened slowly, as a floodgate letting in a mass of uncontrollable water. Damien lead them to the main room, shadows consuming the world behind the closing gate. Their perfect leader scurried to a row of elevators, disappearing, his dark eyes simply part of the shadow. The lights blinded the dumbfounded dog-cats. Millions of heavily armed soldiers held their weapons aimed and level. A cruel smile appeared on the face of the leading stupid person, holding a large gun. The time had come to cleanse the city of the dangerous breed of human, the smarter of the fools. �Fire.� The stupid person with the large gun said coldly, his voice triggering the gunfire of those nearest to him, followed by the firing of those closest to them and so on until the circular row of stupid people and large guns were now lighting the room in a blaze of gunfire, burning the lives out of the screaming people who tried in vain for safety. Their perfect leader watched from a safety far above. He smiled as he watched the floor painted with a shade of crimson. Their god had forsaken them, the shadow closed around the city, pushing back the struggling white hand, crushing it into oblivion. <~~Back to Stories |