MARGIN BOMB

MARGIN BOMB by JOE HOLEK I guess now that time permits I should at least try to recount a small sliver of what happened. Not that it’s too important, its the future that matters, not so much the past. But it has been said before, ‘If we don’t take a lesson from history, we are doomed to repeat it.’ Those who said that are now the dust in my lungs, the grass beneath my feet, and the bacteria under my nails. Its odd how the tables turned. Is it sad to envy them? The earth has been ravaged by a holy war, nearly everyone lost their ass. The air is stale, the ash has yet to settle. The big orb in the sky never sits, casting its hateful glare. I’ve been creeping in this landscape since I was a snot nosed runt. I can still remember what my mother told me before she dried up to nothing, “You must first learn to crawl before you can walk, and walk before you can run. Once you know how to run, good luck.” She had always been deeply insightful, the kindest of mud puddles. So, crawl I did, on all seven arms and legs, and soon I learned to walk. And after I learned to walk I was running for my life. Thank the gods for all these legs. I don’t want to misled you, my life isn’t a death struggle all the time. I mean it is most of the time, but there are a few moments in the day where I can sit down and breathe. Some days I’m lucky and can take a crap undisturbed without some freak asking if I’m going to eat that. It is during these moments of rest that I compose my manifesto, something I’ve been working on since my youth. I can remember quite vividly the first bit of print I read, how it changed my life; it was a short story from the pages of a once popular publication. I believe its main attraction was the showcasing of the female reproductive organs to perverts and other strange individuals. Sadly, it hasn’t been in print for many decades. Pages of print still float around like dead leaves that have yet to be raked up and burned. It has been illegal to read or write for years now. The last bits of paper are becoming harder to find. This makes writing my manifesto even more difficult. A few years ago I was going through the woods when I heard the dreadful buzzing of a drone. These drones were the last survivors of the reign of Bezos. They had gone rogue since then, and some damn fool thought it would be entertaining to equip them with semi-auto firearms. When I heard the buzzing I knew to find the nearest safe place and hide out. While I was sitting in a dusty storehouse I stumbled on a machine I had never seen before. I knew it was a machine of great power. It didn’t have wires, chips, or a screen. It was a mechanical device that was dangerous to the State and highly illegal. A machine that had withstood the meltdown and chaos. I cleaned off the dust of many years of abandonment. Letters in black spelled out the name: Smith Corona Galaxy Twelve. I struck one of the keys and a deafening shot rang out in the empty building. It was exhilarating. Soon I had a sling to carry the clunky beast. I continued on the endless pursuit towards the freedom lands. I kept my eyes out for paper to load into this new machine of mine, like loading some deadly gun with bullets. Each page bringing the State further to its knees. Now that I had Galaxy Twelve, my manifesto could be heard. But even with this hope my daily life was lonely. I once had a partner who traveled by my side. One day we ran into a highly radiated field, and now she travels on my side, fused into my molecular structure. I don’t have to feed or water her, she takes what she needs from my body. How convenient is that? But she doesn’t talk or breathe, and the one eye she does have can’t blink, so the one blink yes and two blinks no doesn’t work at all. And she cries all the time, with no eye lid and all, but at least I know she won’t fool around on me. There was only that one time, and I’m as much to blame as she was. The land isn’t in any short supply of radioactive water, which after getting past the metal burning taste and the warts that follow, isn’t so bad. Beggars can’t be choosers. Even though this land is dripping with pollutants and crawling with festering hounds I wouldn’t trade it for the fate of the escapees. No, they didn’t have it so lucky. After taking directions from their god they got on rocket ships to run from the problems they created. They found that Mars didn’t have a space station, and they had no way of getting back. They either burned up or turned to ice. But what can you expect following a god named Musk? I’m sure one of the Musk clones is somewhere having a mighty good laugh. Some nights when the air settles I can sometimes see that planet Mars. I wonder why on Earth anyone would want to go live on a planet named after a god of war. The nights here are well below freezing. Thank goodness for radioactive blood. It is during the night when the real freaks come out. Most of them are Middle-Earthers, believers in the works of Tolkien. Anyone with an arm hanging from their head knows it’s all a load of crap. But I guess it keeps people’s spirits up. I just wish they weren’t so pushy with their religion. Most nights I try to find a stump to crawl under, and wait until the great orb to signal daytime with its mighty scream. You are probably wondering why I continued in this sad world with my many afflictions. It is for this one simple fact: My manifesto will bring about a change that is needed for the continuation of this earth and the freaks and slime on it. I have the deepest belief that one day we will evolve back into something resembling humans, and the earth will finally give a sigh of relief. This belief gave me hope. I was always on the look out for the ammunition needed for the Galaxy Twelve. My luck changed one day while I was out relieving myself. Before I knew what was happening I heard bullets flying over my head. One cut into my shoulder, burning as it went. I ran without zipping up. That wild thing dancing around. The typewriter on my back slowing me down, but I could not depart from it. I blundered through the thorny undergrowth while the drone chased me, firing off little metal pills to meet my maker. All would have been lost if it hadn’t been for the great weight on my back. The typewriter caused me to lose balance, and I came crashing head first into the ground. I closed my eyes and braced myself for a hard land, but it didn’t come. I opened my eyes, I was falling some more through the ceiling of a buried building. I landed with a jolting thump. The Galaxy Twelve resting on top of my nearly broken back. I remained like this for a while, waiting for the drone to make its way down the hole I had crashed through. But the drone never came. Silence filled my head, and soon I passed out. I must have been like that for a day or so. When I finally awoke I was thirsty and needed to relieve myself. I slowly got up and straightened out. I found the nearest corner to do the deed. My poor member looked like a cactus from my crazy run through the undergrowth. Afterwards I stumbled around the small building, there where desks all lined up neatly, separated with walls so each desk was isolated by walls on three sides. Dust an inch thick powdered everything. The dried remains of the people that once labored there set fastened to their chairs. Forever waiting to clock out. I scouted through the rooms and found a stand with a liquid of unbelievable clarity sitting on top. Little cups where conveniently placed beside it. I helped myself to this liquid. It didn’t have a taste, but it did quench my thirst. There was a room close to this liquid station that had a big desk. Sitting behind this big desk was a great prune of a person. This must have been the slave master. Just what was this place, I wondered. From what I could gather it was a torture detainment facility. I continued going through the big prune’s things. And there it was, sitting on a long table across the room. The bullets I had been looking for. Dust had covered the brick of paper, and time had yellowed the edges. I cracked into the ream and started to cry, the dust was mostly human. Spicy. I had a stack of new blank pages to set in motion the manifesto. I loaded the first page into the typewriter. My fingers and toes twitching over the keys, I set petrified for many moments. Then taking a deep breath I struck the first key, then another. The first line of the manifesto was now manifest: Dear Malformed Reader,