Please Keep Your Hands and Feet Inside the Class War at All Times

    Above and around me looms an impossible expanse of metal- the curvature of which is riddled with metallic structures that seem to mock the topography of the Earth below. An affront to whatever mad god inspired it. The people all cried “progress!”  “prosperity!” and “preservation!” Too few of us knew what this actually meant. Wars were fought to make this monstrosity a reality. Oil was plundered from neighbors, children were ripped from their mothers’ arms. People died to create Disney Planet.

    After the wars, many were left destitute. Even those of us fortunate enough to live in first-world countries like Canada or New Texas or the Republic of California. Many working class people fought from their homes, furthering the psyops campaign produced by the conglomerate so many years ago.

    “Well, you see, the reanimated corpse of Walt Disney has nothing to gain by lying to us. The planet is dying, most of us accept that now but too little too late. Disney Planet is our way out. Who else has the resources to do something this massive for so many people,” says a friend of mine over drinks one evening after work.

    “And did you happen to see the price tag of admission to Disney Planet?” I ask, more than a little sardonically.

    “Oh sure, and nobody’s got that kind of money. But you can always work for your keep. Once you’ve paid it off, you’re free.”

    “What you’re describing,” I say, tapping my fingers on the bar impatiently, “ is indentured servitude. Slavery rebranded.”

    “Don’t be so dramatic, it’s not like that.”

    The discourse ends there. I finish my drink and leave. For some reason, it’s always the same with these Mouseketeers. You tell them it’s a duck, they ask you for proof. You show them a literal picture of a duck, the damned definition, play a recording of a duck and it’s still never enough.

    I walk down the nearly empty city streets and try not to breathe too deeply. The production of raw materials has increased the amount of smog tenfold in most places. Of course, there are obvious advantages to the construction of this new world. For one thing, we are enveloped in a  constant state of work. To hear it from my nonno, work used to be hard to come by. There was always a question of if experience would suffice in a world that vilified the uneducated. My nonno worked in trades most of his life, unable or unwilling to take on the level of debt and uncertainty a higher education would cost him. Now, education is all but discouraged. You mine or you forge or you find some way to contribute to the new world’s ends.

    There are also, it must be said, some glaring disadvantages to this way of life. Children as young as eight years old are recruited to lay down their pencils and pick up a hammer or a pickaxe. I hear that in years past, the average work day was limited to eight hours a day; forty in a week. What a novelty!

    I walk down Market and turn my attention to the panhandlers and fences that line the street. I pass a few bucks to a young woman, clutching her dog. Her sign reads “Got lost trying to find myself.” I know this won’t get her much of anything. I notice the track marks on her arms; the fresh blood rapidly coagulating there and think, ‘if one of us can be happy by the end of the day, I’d rather it be her.’

    By the time I reach the SoMa district, I’ve forgotten all about her. That’s all anyone can expect these days: brief flashes of dopamine followed by an empty, hollow feeling. A sign hangs outside of my apartment complex with a familiar-looking mouse with the caption, “Work for a Better Tomorrow!” Rolling my eyes is the least I can do.

    In my apartment, I search for something organic to eat. With the light sources provided by Disney, farming has almost entirely been eradicated. The need for fresh foods has also been solved, or so it seems. My fridge is empty but for various powders and slabs of questionable substances. I reach for the whiskey instead. I’m old enough to remember a day when food- fresh produce and meat- was plentiful. So plentiful, in fact, that we threw out billions of pounds of it every year. I remember vaguely that people were still starving then and wonder how that could ever be.

    I lie in bed and wonder what I could possibly do to change the path set before me. I wonder at how many people would suffer in the wake of what has been done to this planet. Weren’t we warned that this day would come? Hadn’t we had time to prepare? To prevent? Why is it now on my head that the planet we live on is dying a premature death?

    I sip my whiskey and wonder these things as a commercial for some cola or another plays. It illustrates just how cool I would be if I only bought their product.

    Within an hour, I turn my screen off. I don’t even bother getting into bed. Alarms are set for four hours’ time which is just enough time for me to wake up and get ready for my next shift.

    I wake, I drink my coffee, I brush my teeth, I leave. Walking down the streets, I see the same despondency from the night before but almost, inexplicably, I see it in its more natural state. The people sleeping in doorways seem to be the most wholesome thing in this nightmarish place. I see the girl I slipped those bills to, sleeping on cardboard. She has a smile on her face and her arms wrapped protectively around the puppy. Her dog kicks in its sleep and I think, ‘it must be dreaming of running.’ I can’t help but wonder if some memory locked deep within its DNA is remembering the freedom its kind once had. That we all had.

    This monstrosity has hung in the sky for years now. Artificial UVB light has been set on a timer to simulate sunlight, as whole countries have been blotted out in its wake. In a few days, it will take off. Presumably with enough time for the passengers to see the Earth slowly boil.

    I watch this mammoth thing hang there, a proverbial middle finger to gravity and nature. I watch it float there as if mocking the creation below. I guess it’s not such a small world after all.