Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Sassa Guard: Chapter 7 (A Big Meal)

Seneca stood on the street facing the wooden door to the place he called home for the past six weeks.  As he stood there a slew of people passed by, and he just knew they were all looking at him, or at least making a quick surreptitious glance at the four hundred seventy second tester of the Altonian year 4012.

And Lord knows what all these curious folks were wondering: "Did Seneca's test results come in yet?" If so, well, there would either be A Big Meal followed by a celebration at Guardian Stadium.  Of course all those morons were forbidden by Sassa Guard law to communicate about it, so that explained the awkward silence.  Yes, it was so silent Seneca could hear the whoosh of the vultures wings as they fluttered over the bodies on the other side of the fence 100 yard to the east down Buelding Street (the street he was currently standing on). It was probably the stench of the three teenagers who failed last week's test that prevented the morons from smelling the meal.

Seneca already knew his fate, and for the same reason the morons were silent he was silent.  Yet over and above the smell of roasting bodies, and over the dust spewed from the feet of the morons, he could smell the roast beef his mother was cooking.  He could smell the mashed potatoes.  He could smell the stuffing. He could smell an amalgamate of spices and herbs.  He could smell it all through the door, even despite the stench of the other stuff; and even despite the dust billowing from feet on the gravel road, and despite the smoke billowing from chimneys.  And while he could easily open the door and get away from the peeping eyes of the morons, that good smell -- that pleasant smell among rancid smells, is what stopped him.  Yes, of course Seneca felt the irony of that: the bad smell didn't cause him to enter the door; the good smell didn't cause him to enter the door.  Yet in the world of the Sassa Guard, this is how it is.   The entire world is ironic; the opposite of what you'd expect. Even in a world where half the planet lives in 4012, the Sassa Guard has the other half of the world living in 4012 B.C.

If those morons around me had any brains, they'd already know what was up, he thought.  But they don't have any brains.  Any brains they had are gone the moment they get into the 10th grade, because the Sassa Guard throw the same bull crap at each kid so much that the bull crap starts to grow roots in the kid's brains.  Yet most of the crap sucked into these kid's minds is the opposite of reality; the opposite of the truth.  If what the Sassa Guard were teaching our kids were true, then why the hell were people over in the Alton Guard side of the planet living so well.  If redistribution worked, then why do people in the Sassa Guard portion of the world live in abject poverty, and people in the Alton Guard side of the planet live in the 41st century.  Yes, the irony of the lies is nothing to laugh about.  The biggest irony of all is these folks think they have it well to walk freely -- as he thinks this he spats a wad of phlegm -- and yet there's nothing free about there lives.  They have had everything from the day they were born fed to them by the giant, suckling mamma pig that is the Sassa Guard, and those little, baby pigs grow up to be morons because they never did anything for themselves their entire lives, not even think.  They are fed spoonfuls of bull shit their entire lives, yet they think they are the smart ones.  So they make him take the test, and now they are probably going to make him  eat the big meal, and they will make him....

What will they make him do?  They won't make him do anything.  No sir  Lucius Amnaeus Seneca has no interest in becoming a mind blob; a moron; a Sassa Guard.  He has a brain and he doesn't want it taken away; rather, he has a MIND, and he doesn't want THAT taken away. He doesn't want to support something just because the guard does.  He doesn't want to live in lies anymore.  He does't want to live among morons any more.  He doesn't want to be a mind numbed robot.  He wants to be Seneca and Seneca only.  And Seneca wants to live among the Altonians.  Seneca wants to sit and write.  Seneca wants to write a new economic policy for the Sassa Guard.  Yes, Seneca wants to do something with his role in the Senate; something more than just pleasing the Guard.  He wants to do something more than being a moron, because being a moron is nothing more than being just another suckling pig under the nipple of mamma pig.  Being a moron is nothing more than being a sheep.  Yes, it's easy being a sheep.  It's easy being a pig.  Seneca wants to be a Bull.  He wants to charge through the nation making a difference for the better, not for the collective, for the better.  

Once again, the irony of this moment is irritating to him.  Here he has written the best selling medical book, and the best selling book on natural history, and he's a famous senator (things that benefit all of society, even Altonians if they so choose to read the books, but they probably don't need the medical book because they are allowed to live in the year 4012), but he's not happy.  No!  Happiness is not allowed in Sassa.  Or, you can be happy, but only if you are a moron.  You see, morons are happy because they think the way they are living is the norm.  They think the way they are living is the best they can be, so they are happy.  Seneca has seen the other side of the world, and knows there's more to life.  Seneca has seen the benefits of God and Jesus, and he knows there's more to life than the collective of this side of the planet.  Seneca knows the collective just holds you back.  He wants, he tried to change that, and now he's going to be sitting at a big meal.  That's the irony of it all.  

The irony reminds him of the life of  who used to live on earth in their 5th century B.C. in what they called ancient Greece.  His name was Socrates.  He encouraged people to think for themselves, and not to think they knew everything.  He taught that the more you thought the less you realized you knew.  He taught that people ought not think they are experts in things they know nothing about.  He taught what Seneca now teaches, and he was killed for it just like Seneca has been forced to sit through the big meal.  It's a different ending, but it's all the same.  It's senseless.  It's moronic.  

Yes, so the irony is that Seneca has brains, he has a mind, and he gets a big meal.  Seneca is a Senator, but he did not make all the laws of the world, most were written thousands of years ago.  The laws of Seneca do not limit government, but just the opposite; the government can make any law it wants; and that's what's bad.  So Seneca tried to change that. Seneca tried to use his mind and do some good. 

He set his fingers of his right hand on the cool knob, and a shock forced him to take it back.  Yes, there's even irony to that.  He set his fingers back on the knob, and caressed it gently as a horse and buggy clip clopped behind him, causing a puff of dust to waft through the air he breathed.  He froze like a child absconding from his mother on a cold and chilly night because he wet his bed and didn't want to get his licking.  He froze because he knew the man in the buggy.  He didn't see him because he was looking the other way, but he just knew the alien in the black toga was Medusa the 19th.  And where there was Medusa there would be the Guardian of the guards to protect her, there would be Pontious.  And he knew that they would all be here because they also knew that HE, Seneca, did not pass the test.  And as the thought hits, a commotion stirred among the morons.  And more morons started to enter the area around Seneca's house.  He didn't see any of this, but he knew it from past big meals.  He knew he was going to be the center of attention the next few days.  He was going to be the entertainment to both the Sassa Guard and the morons.  He just knew it.  

"Help!" a lady screamed.  He turned and a tall, balding human was lying on top of a frail looking female moron (yes, she was an alien from earth perspective).  Seneca let go of the door knob, rushed to the lady who was struggling to get free from the human, but Seneca knew this was not possible.  Seneca knew what this was all about.  The human is Pontious, and he's the guardian slave of Medusa.  She is the director of the big meal, and she is collecting.  Yes, she is collecting.  The lady was going to be part of the later celebration, event of the gladiators and lions.  Seneca knew he was too powerful for them to let him go alone, so they would drag some with him to make sure the lesson was learned.  There would be more unless... unless Seneca stopped it.  And that's what he was thinking as he charged at Pontious and knocked him over.  Seneca was flipped over and he hit his head on the wheel of the buggy that was stopped now because there was too many morons.  The morons were head to head, shoulder to shoulder, and if Seneca was observing he would see they were salivating for action.  Yes, they were bored and now they are not bored.  

A powerful force pounced upon Seneca, and he was no longer able to move on his own.  He was standing, but not by his own power, but the power of the voodoo gun.  He was now standing, and he was looking not at his house but at the carriage.  And he watched as Medusa climbed down onto the dusty surface, something she probably never did before in her life.  She looked at Seneca, and the expression on her face did not show any sympathy.  Then she looked at the old lady, who was now standing in the grasp of Pontious.  Her face was dirty and scarred from the hit she took from Pontious, and she looked old and frail and innocent enough.  Yet that all didn't matter, because in the emotionless mind of Medusa, individual liberty meant nothing to the collective.  One mind, one body, one soul, is for the Sassa Guard not the individual.  She would sacrifice her stomach for the gods of the Sassa Guard.  She would go the way of Seneca just because -- just because.  

The morons were standing almost eerily silent.  You'd think if there were any Seneca's in the crowd they'd be joining him now, but there were no Senecas.  Morons don't become Senecas.  Seneca felt his fingers and now he felt his feet, and he bent his knees to make sure that he had power, and he rushed fast as he could and pummelled Pontious to the ground, and Pontious dragged the old lady with him.  And the crowd guffawed as the lady got back up and as Seneca got back up, and they -- Seneca and the old lady -- were standing there in front of the carriage, in front of Medusa, under control of the voodoo gun.  Who had the voodoo gun?  He saw no one with a voodoo gun, but he just knew someone had one.  Pontious got up and stood before Seneca and spat in Seneca's face.

And Seneca felt the spit, so he knew he had his muscles back already, and he looked at the old lady.  He tried to grab her hand, only she slapped it away: "Go!" she said. "Don't be a traitor!  Don't be a traitor!" and then the crowd echoed her words: "Go! Don't be a traitor! Don't be a traitor! Go! Don't be a traitor! Don't be a traitor! Go! Don't be a traitor! Don't be a traitor!"  It was moronic.  It was the automaton response of the collective.  It was moronic.  And Seneca had no helpers to stop it.  He was the ironic moron and they were the smart ones.  Yes, all the moronic people who let the collective Sassa Guard control them were the smart ones.  They were smart because they were doing what they were told and living the way they are told so they can get their money and their material stuff and keep their lives.  Yes, they are smart and Seneca is the moron.

He walked to the door of his house.  He walked not on his own accord, but by the power of the voodoo gun.  He walked to the door, and he touched the cool knob with his left hand this time, and he breathed the moronic, dust filled, smoke filled, rotting flesh filled air that was also redolent of the home cooked meal on the other side of the door.  And as he turned the door knob, and opened the door of his home --that really wasn't his home because it belonged to the collective -- the redolence of his wife's cooking wafted over him, along with a tear draining down his face as he saw his wife's freshly scarred and scared face.    He entered his home for the last time; for one last Big Meal.  And later, after Seneca was dead, there would be a celebration at the Guardian Stadium.

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