Finkish Things

A blank, black chasm. So deep and yawning, as if Light itself has relinquished its part in the fight against Darkness, regrouping to fight another day - forfeiting this particular patch to be consumed. A cold void waiting for illumination. 

Suddenly, a burst of light, like a match to a tinderbox. A metallic click, as the image on the screen comes into focus and a steely robotic voice announces “Commencing Broadcast”. The television barks its intrusive brightness into the dimly lit room. 

“Breaking news tonight, as reports flood in from around the globe”. The Automaton sitting behind the desk tilts its head, as it shuffles the papers in its hand and looks into the camera. The motion is meant to be soothing, to bring to mind the fluidity and humanity of news anchors of the past. But the flashing horizontal bar of light situated at the mouth of the robot only made one acutely aware of the present. Gone are the Brokaw's, the Cronkite's, the Murrow's - replaced by technology built to resemble humans, to report and proclaim, not to feel or react. The flashing mouth-light blinks again, from a faceless head, as more words are heard. 

“Yesterdays domestic terrorist attack has drawn the attention and ire of world leaders, as the infighting continues in the wake of last weeks troubling announcement. With quartz crystals and naturally occurring grains of sand virtually becoming obsolete, governments across the globe have stalled in coming up with alternative and affordable means to mass-produce this vital mineral. Once readily available in naturally occurring deposits, the loose granular material blanketing beaches, riverbeds and ocean floors of the world commonly referred to as sand has steadily become extinct in the face of massive overpopulation and destruction of natural resources. To make way for more and more city construction, as well as the continuous production of machines, computers, and monolithic buildings, experts and economists alike fear the consumption limit for the naturally-formed granules has been dangerously surpassed."

"The responsibility for the attacks has been attributed to the Silica Mafia, whose numbers continue to grow as more and more outbursts of violence dominate the headlines. The radical group takes its name from silicon dioxide, also known as silica, most commonly found in nature as quartz. In many parts of the world, silica is the major constituent of sand, vital to the concrete used for structures, and in the making of glass and computer chips, among other products. Various news outlets are reporting that this terrorist organization is on the hunt for the last remaining bits of silica in the world, promising more violence to come if it does not successfully procure the highly sought after material. With very little progress from the world’s leading companies and brightest minds, some have begun to proclaim that the state of the modern world has changed forever, as fear and panic begin to-" 

A fly lands on the bright screen, having decided to brave the journey from the darkness of the room and try its luck on this foreign surface. It nervously twitches around on the face of the robotic news anchor, hoping that the lone occupant of the room does not happen to notice its intrusion on the screen. The fly does not go unnoticed.

Of course, the gruff-voiced man thinks. Unable to give me a moments peace. Just as he reaches out to swat the fly away, the door to the room slams open, sending the fly buzzing from the screen and into the cobwebbed corner. 

“Is he gone?” “Have you seen it yet?” The disheveled man to whom these questions belong puts his hand against the wall to steady himself as he struggles to catch his breath. “Did your brother send him?”

The gruff-voiced man continues to stare at the television screen, giving no outward signs of having heard the breathless questions, let alone even registering that another individual had taken up residency in the room with him. A long minute passes, neither man speaking, one trying to calm his beating heart and the other lost in his own thoughts.

“Cullet?” “Did you hear me?”

At the sound of his name the gruff-voiced man shook his head, as if waking from a dream, and turned his focus to the man panting heavily, like he had run from another section of the house at a great pace. 

“Which question do you want an answer to first?”. His deep voice echoed around the room, competing with the huffing of the second man. 

“He speaks” pants the winded man. “I’ll settle for any of them”.

“Of course I saw it, it’s on every channel”. He cast his green eyes downward. “Since when is that even possible?”

“I guess anything is possible when something everyone thinks would never happen actually happens”. The man who had entered the room in such a rush had managed to compose himself now. He looked at his friend with concern in his eyes. “You know he told them. We both know they’re on their way here right now.” 

Cullet reached down and grabbed the television remote in his hand, clicking the screen off as he turned. “I know, Frit. To answer your other questions, yes, Tyson sent him. I gave him my answer and threw him out. I doubt it’s the last I’ll see of him though. We both know my brother approves of his methods”. Upon uttering the word methods, Cullet once again gazed down to the floor. His hand instinctively dropped the remote and went to his jacket pocket, clutching the cold, cylindrical vial that rested within. “What a world” he mutters, not to anyone in particular.

Frit moves closer, lowering his voice as he does. “If Tyson sent him here, that means he already told the Mafia where you are". 

“I’d imagine that’s an accurate observation” replied Cullet somberly.

Frit shook his head, his disheveled mane of hair swaying back and forth. “Seems like such a finkish thing to do”.

At this phrase Cullet let out a small scoff of laughter. “Yeah, well, he always was one to tattle when things didn’t go his way”. Finkish, he thinks. A finkish act in a finkish world. 

Frit’s voice brings him out of his reverie. “You’d think he would’ve grown up. I mean, isn’t that the rules children play by?”

“It doesn’t matter if he grew up or not” said Cullet. “The rules are still the same, it’s the world that’s changed”. With this, his hand tightened around the vial. 

“So what do we do now?” Frit asked. 

“Nothing we didn’t already plan for. We both knew this was the only outcome. If Tyson told the Mafia about the vial, then that means Velvet knows. Hell, she probably knew before he did”. Saying her name out loud made him cringe. How long had it been? Ten years? Longer? How does time pass that quickly?

“If Velvet knows you have the last vial of silica, she won’t stop until you’re dead. Relentless doesn’t even begin to describe it, she’ll send every single man she has to hunt you down and finish you off”.

“Hell of a way for a daughter to treat a father, isn’t it? replies Cullet.

Again, he allows himself a small chuckle. “Seems fitting, in kind of a pathetically poetic way, doesn’t it? The man who gets his name from a process that creates the very thing that now causes so much death and destruction is bestowed the last glimpse of salvation. It’s like there’s someone bigger than us calling the shots, and He just hung a giant sign on our world that reads “Fragile. Handle with Care”.

“Like sand through the hourglass, so are the ways of our wives” replies Frit, placing his hand lovingly over his heart and closing his eyes.

“Please tell me you don’t still watch those old soap operas” says Cullet, looking at his friend posed in such a reverential stance. “Do you even know what you're incorrectly quoting?"

Frit removed his hand from his chest and, with a smile, placed it upon the shoulder of his tattooed friend. “It doesn’t matter. My passion for old mementos of the past aside, you have much bigger problems to face. The days of your lives are numbered if we don’t get you out of here now".

Cullet looked around the room, allowing himself a moment of sadness in the face of leaving all this behind. Once again he clutched the vial in his jacket pocket and looked Frit in the eye. You never were one for sentimentality, says the voice in his head. Why start now?

“Let’s go”.

--

The wind outside the house where the two friends formulated their plans had died down to barely a whisper. From his vantage point hidden among the rubble, the man who had entered the house under the guise of shyness, and shed that act upon being thrown out now crouched and watched the conversation unfold. His movements were practiced and fluid as he trained the scope of the high-powered rifle through the window of the room, tightening the focus until the sight lined up squarely with his target- the nape of the neck belonging to the man he had sat across from not thirty minutes ago. You shouldn’t treat your guests so poorly, he thinks to himself, as he steadies his breathing. “Oh, well” he mutters quietly into the still night air.

The single rifle shot cracks out, shattering the tranquility of the cloudless, observant night.