Alright kids. Time to go to bed. Your uncle has to sleep now… what? Oh not now, I'm so – Ok! Ok! Stop yelling! My ears hurt.
A story, eh? How about the tale of how the Old Man braved the Circular Sea and found the Golden Fish which – no? Already told that one? Ok then… And the one about how a Miner kept digging and found gold? That one too? And the one where this young man got hit by a truck and – oh come on now!
Urgh, do we really need to do this each night? You are way too grown up for children stories.
…
What? One of "those" stories?
…
No, when I say you're grown up I don't mean you are an adult and –
…
No, there's a difference between the two.
…
I don't care what you say. These ones are way too rated M for your kiddie brains to handle. Yes, that includes you too. No, I don't care if you have a high IQ, you can still get a spanking from Uncle if you don't behave, you know?
…
Oh, I see. You expect a story from me, huh? You think you can just walk in here with your nice five-dollar haircut, your halitosis-ridden face and your comfy handmade pajamas and extort from me, me, a story? The way I see it, it's all just one of your elaborate plots to get a sensible chuckle before going to bed with one of my ha-ha circus tier fairy tales. God, you really piss me off.
…
Seriously though, y'all can be thankful that little Timmy over there is smart enough to blackmail me. Here's a rule though; if you tell any of this to your mommy or daddy, you can bet your tiny little asses that you won't hear a story from me ever again.
Mostly because I'll be buried in a ditch somewhere out there.
See, the overall point of this story is supposed to turn real life over on its head and make a parody of it. But as it often happens, real life loves making a parody of this story, so in the end you're left with the question of who's fucking with who. Too late for that little one! You wanted an adult story, so adults use that kind of language. Deal with it.
Where was I? Right. Maybe before I even begin the story, I should give you a little bit of background, just for you to get an idea. Long ago, there was this little salty speck of dust known as Pandora. Yes Timmy, that Pandora, stop screaming please. I really don't want your parents finding out I'm telling you this.
Right, Pandora. I could just skip all of this by saying that it is a "shithole", but what would be the point of the story, then? You are about to learn why it is a shithole in the first place.
Again, long ago, there was also this giant megacorporation known as Dahl, made by a gentleman known as Stanton Dahl. One day, old Stanton, who was a secretary back then, came up to a general of the Central Government he worked for and began a chat.
"Dahl!" he saluted, accentuating his name as if he said "Kaiser" or "Bismarck" because he knew that the general was a Germanophile whose lineage traced back to those ancient Terran families that left for the great voyage across space. The general, almost ready for retirement, looked at him in horror, thinking how a new war began somewhere in an unknown part of the galaxy. Being a professional himself, he knew where that line of thought usually lead, so he dismissed it early on. By the way, the general also knew a lot of languages. He spoke German, obviously, with an Italian accent. He spoke Italian with a French accent. He also spoke French with a Russian accent, because his mother tongue was actually Russian rather than German. Great cosmic irony aside, the general prepared mentally for whatever this "Dahl" was about to say.
"Your pension, dear general, is a disgrace for someone of your status, sir." Dahl began the conversation.
"Debatable." Said the general, feigning asthma, as well as testing the proverbial waters, just to see what would this discussion amount to. If worst came to worst, he could always use the gun in the drawer and then bury the body somewhere. In short, his retirement was foolproof.
"I can help you with that. I just need to rent that old R&D department you used to have under your control."
The general still had trouble analyzing this statement for all possible implications.
"Unfortunately, I can't. The department…"
"I know everything. But those gentlemen will go."
"You spoke with them?"
"No. And I don't plan to."
"Bah, they won't go away."
"Listen to me, general. I can assure you they will. Whatever sum they are paying, I will double it. I just need it for a project of mine. One month is all I'm asking for. All we need is a word from you. Just think! Are you a general or a sheep herder?"
Normally all the aristocracy of the galaxy would never dare to speak to a general in such an intimate tone. That's why they use secretaries, who would dare to speak to a general in such an intimate tone. In this case such a mistake would amount to water under the bridge, because the general was actually a lieutenant colonel. The title of general was gifted to him by public opinion, who deemed him worthy of it not because he saved said public's collective ass more than once, but because it would make the public feel respected in everyone's eyes. A hovercar salesman once told me that he knew, from a trusted source, that the colonel wasn't even a colonel, but a captain. That he was never present on any battlefield and that his weird mannerisms aren't from PTSD or injuries; it's just rheumatism. He just got to his current position through handshakes with esteemed war criminals, now esteemed officials, when he was just an officer.
The stars aligned for Stanton Dahl, for he got what he asked for. In that month he built and planned what is today known as Dahl Corporation. A bit of industrial espionage, a bit of money laundering, a bit of backstabbing important business partners and there you go! Soon after that you get a corporation that is marketing itself as a respected business built by professionals for professionals. Though it was revealed, much later, that the first transactions ever made by the corporate entity involved smuggling its own manufactured guns to terrorist cells and revolutionary groups across the galaxy at discount prices, right under Vladof's nose at that, which quickly gained the reputation of being unreliable to the point that they could explode at any random push of the trigger. Much, much later, it was also also revealed that all these smuggling operations had the goal of acting as proving grounds to test the first weapons Dahl ever came up with, because actual testing of all those big budget firearm lines proved that the result of the cost-benefit analysis was more on the cost side than the benefits one. Also because playing dirty on the galactic marketplace could only get you so far against already established brands known for decades of marketing success and top notch quality scores on all fields.
Hey, I warned you. Too late to go back now.
So why is Dahl important? Well, it's important because it started everything! See, at one point in time, the corporation developed its own mining extraction department to improve its market competitiveness. One of the very first projects would be established on a teeny tiny planet in an unremarkable solar system. It had a different name then, but Pandora was quickly thrown around, mostly as an inside joke to prove to young interns that the company did, in fact, had staff with a good sense of humor and any attempt to say otherwise could be classified as defamation and could be used to press charges against any entity or individual who spread it around.
Those who had money could rent a lot of side companies to help them in the effort of mineral extraction. Then again, those who had money didn't choose Pandora. The environment was way too hostile and the amount of deadly flora and fauna that was present could give a hard on to every astrobiologist out there for generations to come. Its location made it excellent for all sorts of illegal activities that would make you pee in your pajamas.
In other words, just what Dahl looked for.
Unsurprisingly, manpower was the cheapest among the costs of the project. All it took was corporate handouts to important hands so that a fifth of all jails in the galaxy could be emptied out. Really, prisoners are the best kind of manpower: cheap, affordable, expendable and, above all, you don't have to cover dental!
The money quickly started pouring in and all members of the board of directors could rub their hands gleefully. It was a secret, of course, because the competitors had already enough dirt on the company that the whole of Dahl would go nuclear due to a catastrophic PR apocalypse should they decided to let it all flood into the public. Not that Dahl didn't have any on them. It's just that their amount of dirt could do fuck all against someone as large and important as, say, Hyperion or Vladof. If you can't bring them down with you, then you better hide your cards the way God intended.
But nobody, and I really do mean nobody, could predict what one of them would do next. See, when you start busting heads, sooner or later you meet someone who will bust yours and it just so happens that the biggest kid on the block had locked their sights on Dahl: Atlas.
You simply didn't fuck with Atlas. What you could think of doing, Atlas would do it better. Better staff, better guns, better army, better tech. And this giant soon found out that an ant had discovered something big if it were true. Something they had set their sights on for years. Naturally, Dahl had to leave. And leave it did. Without conflict even. If Atlas said jump, you had to ask how high.
Dahl left everything behind, including the prisoners, which eventually formed millions of factions that settled on Pandora's surface. Then there was the Vault and so on and so forth. You know that part already.
Now we get to the meat of the meal.
***
The thing about settlements on Pandora is that most of them, if not all, shared a lot in common with Terran favelas than the actual favelas ever did. Rancid piss and shit flew in rivers around, and sometimes in, the settlements whose first, and only, line of defense consisted of rusty metallic plates (excellent way to inflict tetanus on the enemy by not doing anything) and old junk that was always up for grabs. The greatest architectural minds Pandora could produce had also found it fit to use the same materials to build houses, because the idea of an established market of goods and services, along with functional government entities that could provide legit education was more of a running joke than reality.
It is in one such settlement that our story takes place. With a name that would change on a regular basis and governed by a person who was so skilled at their job that you could place a philodendron on its seat and you wouldn't know the difference – It's true, Dorothy! You could place one of those on the mayor's table and let it flap its foliage and literally no one would bat an eye! – this tiny piece of heaven on Pandora was mostly outside the area of regular happenings that would usually involve the entire planet.
Our protagonist is a seventeen-year old of humble origins, mostly because he couldn't have better, with a hobby of Vault Hunting. I say hobby because he always tried to come up with excuses to say that it was, indeed a hobby. He tried to convince everyone of that fact, mostly himself, even while spending most of his days stuck in a room, flat on his ass, on a dusty bed that I personally wouldn't even throw in the dumpster.
He came alone in this town at the start of our story and almost immediately sought advice from his friends, believing that someone who wanted him dead had to know something about his whereabouts. Vault Hunters tend to step on a lot of feet, you see, so it's natural to come up with a random name rather than give your actual one. The name his chose was Eservelfeldt. He chose this name for two reasons. The first because he knew nobody in town would be able to say the name correctly and the second was the simple fact that the stranger the name, the more likely it was for locals to ostracize him on the basis of him bringing an unknown factor that could eventually ruin the local youth, so naturally it would be best for everyone to simply avoid him. Lots of feet, like I said.
Though it might seem weird that someone so young could become a Vault Hunter, you always have to remember that growing up on Pandora is more of a crash course rather than a natural process. Between local wildlife, the bandits and so on, the most logical course of action is to learn how to use a gun. It's often said that God made people but guns made them equal. That couldn't be further from the truth. Even more so on Pandora. Having a big iron on your hip is all well and good, but it won't do shit if you stumble across a Psycho wielding a rocket launcher that is guaranteed to break every single convention of warfare in the galaxy.
But more on that later. For now, let's focus on our young protagonist, who just got out of bed looking like death, with bags under his eyes and all that. Checking his ECHO device, he stifled a curse as he noticed that it was nearly the end of the month and that soon he would have to pay rent. Just thinking about that made his head hurt so he went for his hangover-cure he bought the other day from a local pharmacist, which is an achievement in itself considering the fact that one could sooner buy a broomstick or a brush rather than an aspirin or whatever. He gulped it down with a glass of oily water and put on his clothes.
How he got that room is nothing short of a miracle. When you come into a town you obviously look for an inn or a hotel where you can put your stuff, right? He spoke with the owner of the local motel, a thing held together with prayers and rusty nails, who instead directed him to a local lady, a certain Margaret, who usually rented a room or two at a fair price to travelers from afar. This mister calmed his conscience for coldly redirecting our young lad by thinking about the fact that the water system of his fine establishment wasn't repaired yet. Lady Margaret, on the other hand, couldn't blame the mister for such an excuse for the simple fact that there was never a water system in the motel in the first place.
Upon arrival, Margaret showed him the room, making it abundantly clear that it was the only room available for rent and that it was all the second floor of the building was supposed to be. The floor below belonged to her, which itself had only two rooms. It was kinda isolated from the neighborhood, though that positive trait was killed off by the inquisitive looks she gave him every time he had shown his face around, a habit that replaced all the absent neighbors he wanted to avoid. Though he got revenge for those looks by commenting how pricey her offer was the moment she gave it to him.
He also quickly learned that Margaret would often ask him about the jobs he usually took to sustain himself for the time being, only to overexaggerate the details on her Poker Night Fridays as soon as she sat down with other local crones – I mean, clones – of lady Margaret. He would never forget how an old man once stopped him to pay his respect to the youngster who decided to bring back a secret porn stash buried deep within the nearby junkyard infested with "those goddam shit-eating bugs". Such an experience is hard to forget, almost like a slap to the face.
Sorry, I digress again. As I was saying, he put on his shoes and walked downstairs, praying to God that Margaret would find him looking like that. It was the moment he saw her standing behind her usual counter that he knew that there was no God.
Fuck, she even caught him looking at her chest. You have to understand, it was really hard not to look at it. Her tits were so strikingly saggy under her dress that on the lad's tactful suggestion she had to wear a stronger bra, which only made things worse, because from then on it looked like she had dough that was left to grow a little bit too much and was now bursting out of the pot. Something so morbid reminded him of the fact that hell was, indeed, other people.
"Bah, nothing to see here boy: just a pair of old, dried figs!"
I always say that the best way to understand Margaret's personality is through cheese. Being the daughter of a cheesemaker herself, she was also one of those types of Skag cheese, in which the bitter yet palatable taste of Skag milk is infused with exotic fragrance of bladeflower seeds from the desert, the fresh air from the first lake you can find on the global map and with stale smells coming from the Rust Commons. This is mixture is a little bit salty, a little bit moldy, a little bit rotting, but in it lies the splendor of hundreds of the local star's light rays. The Great Cheesemaker that made such an object d'art was probably high as a kite when he made her spirit, because if you look carefully, you can find a little bit of hamster's rage against the world for being born a fat fuck on stubby legs, the smelly feet of a woman who wastes her time on pointless gossip and a whole lot of lies. In a way, this translated into her talking. Like, a lot of talking. Even when she was alone. If there weren't people around, then she would talk at objects.
You can bet your ass that she would spread the word of his state around the moment he went through the door. Accepting what fate had in store for him, our protagonist went out before she could remember about rent.
He walked to the local plaza and stared at the billboard, trying to see what kind of odd jobs were there for the day. There was the usual Preston's stuff about Skag hunting. He kept that as a side hustle because he knew that no matter how hard he went on those bastards, good old Preston would always ask him to do more. That man always said the best solution for dealing with Skags was the Final Solution. I can't blame him though. Skags breed rapidly and eat everything, even other Skags. What they can't eat they throw back up, because they lack an anus. There's definitely a life lesson in there somewhere, I'm sure of it.
One of the available jobs came from the local ex-head of the department of archeology of the town's poor excuse for an institute of education for young women, who in his book "On the ways to preserve dignity in members of the female sex" gave moral lessons with such poetic ability that it could bring a tear to the eye. People still had to fire him from that position though, because there was this tendency in his department where young women would come home pregnant at an alarmingly huge number. The old director was an expert in the method of teaching known as "pointing the obvious"; consisting of him bringing these women in his office one by one, from which he would later escort to the exit with the words: "Now you know, dear child, what you must never do if a bandit starts making a fuss!"
Finally, he had found one that seemed interesting enough. Some asshole bandits thought they were clever if they could make a camp near the town and, say, extort supplies from the local population. Contrary to popular belief, not many are willing to throw their weight around when dealing with bandits, mostly because not many folks out there know how to approach the problem correctly. When you see a half-naked guy running at you on a plus forty degrees sunny day, waving an axe and screaming "MY MARBLES ARE MADE OF BODY", the most obvious course of action would be to turn the bastard into a colander with your gun and end it there. It's the "MY MARBLES ARE MADE OF BODY" part that fries their brains, so they stand there, legs shaking, until it's far too late to save their skin. Hence why they ask someone else to do their job for them.
Hence why he was there.
Rule of thumb dictates that those clients that look for assassins for hire also make sure to have money to buy their services. Nowhere in the galaxy is this rule more enforced than on Pandora. If you sent a guy to ice someone and you didn't pay him, he could just kill you later after the job's done. Or better yet, he would not answer the call next time you'd need him. And on Pandora, there's always a next time, I swear on my word.
He squinted at the written text on the bounty. As soon as he read the word "mayor" anywhere near the bounty, he was bound to get a headache, due to the man's necessity on giving him a lecture no matter the job, preferably after he had done all the paperwork. God knows why. Maybe he used to be a preacher once, which would explain quite a few things about. With a heavy sigh, our protagonist decided to take the job and headed out of town.
I'm going to skip how it all played out because I don't want to traumatize your tiny kid brains yet. Also because your father is a motherfucker. Yes, Tony, you can say that to your father. At most he will look at me funny and wave it off. Just don't say I'm telling you this story. I'm not kidding when I say that I'll end up in a ditch somewhere.
Now excuse me, but this old man has to go to the bathroom. Be right back.
There's a lot you can say about the old mayor of the town. Like his unusual habit of walking around the room and talking to himself after checking his pocket watch for a third time and realizing that the party he was supposed to have a meeting with would most likely be late. It wasn't hard to recognize in him the man known as Edgar; mayor of a town that even God forgot it existed. This gentleman carried a real manly presence wherever he went, despite being out of shape for someone who spent most of his life on Pandora. Using the terminology of a cattle breeder, one could say that he was "racially bred", even more so since he was able to preserve his peculiar facial features present on the people that inhabit the southwestern sector of the galaxy. If we use the terminology of the eugenicist folk, however, we could also determine that this man possessed an atavism that consisted of him scratching his moustache. Atavism, because his moustache was near-nonexistent. Of course, we mustn't forget that he always liked to wave around his golden ring with a big blood-red gem while doing this atavistic mannerism, as if he tried his best to forbid the world from forgetting the fact that his majesty was a mayor; just like the fact that his majesty, the mayor, was also a member of an esteemed royal bloodline and that, if only his mother's father weren't some back-alley tanner who tried to sell cat-skin as "rare fox breed smuggled from Terra to be bred in the natural wilds of Oxon", he could as well be the owner of a prestigious mansion with land as far as the eye could see.
On that note, never forget that this man's family included a painter who claimed that each of his works was made by his own ladylike hands (later accused to be a fraud who sold AI-generated paintings as his own, a scandal that was brought to the light of day because he refused to pay royalties to the corporation whose AI he borrowed for use), a general infamous for his stupidity and some low-level state-job clerks whose minds and morals were fun-sized and displayed on their jewelry.
Waiting for the Vault Hunter's arrival, Edgar tried his best to remember the speech he was willing to give to the young lad once he would inevitably come to his office, as was personally requested of him to do so after every job given, and paid, by the town (i.e. the mayor). Hours passed and Edgar was visibly excited the moment he heard that the lad came back into the town. He firmly believed that their meetings stripped away months of his life. The big reason was because of the lad being a Vault Hunter.
Their first meeting was mild at best. He came into the office and tried to register himself as a legit citizen. Sure, no problem, he said, let's just proceed with the formalities first. As a mayor, he needed to get some information out of him first, to see whether or not he would be an acceptable member of the society. Edgar learned the interrogation that followed word by word, because the indignation, as well as fear, were photographed in his short-circuiting brain, including every pause and every punctuation. And from that day onward he repeated that interrogation to himself, sitting in his bathtub or before bed; even worse, he would do that in his office even during work hours, unable to believe the amount of bad luck that was dumped on his head in just one day, to the frustration of the citizens that came to him to file a complaint. He would leave them mid-speech and go into his tiny little room to repeat those famous ten minutes, hoping to find a hidden meaning somewhere that would shine a new light of understanding on the whole thing.
A faint breeze from your average scorching hot desert afternoon brought along the faint smell of boiling garbage that the local populace grew accustomed to, while in the distance you could hear the occasional gunshot or the revving of the engine from the jeeps and other vehicles that roamed in the desert for various reasons. The guards stationed at the makeshift walls of the town had spotted a lone figure walking in the far distance. It was the signal that the mayor was waiting for. He began preparing his face for the inevitable meeting, as well as trying his best to repeat the five-page-written excuse he prepared that morning with an even tone, so as not to betray his feeling of utter horror when explaining to the Vault Hunter that, theoretically, the town lacked the money to pay him in full for his services. That would, also theoretically, earn him a bullet between the eyes for his troubles… but hey. Let no one say that Edgar wasn't a people's person.
To be honest, the Vault Hunter admitted of being from a humble origin, growing up on a farm and all that. Edgar, on the other hand, fell into the category of those people who hate humble origins and who think that all farm-grown folks are mouthbreathers with all the personality of a limestone, whose hidden aspirations and physical defects should be taken with as much pity a human being could muster. It was Edgar's firm belief that the best way to win an argument with a "hillbilly" was to slap them across the face, which he put to practice in many such cases, often unaware how these mindlessly wrathful, disgraceful and nameless slaps would sometimes, even after years have passed, come back with a vengeance, because our dear Edgar also had no idea that such actions often brought along the law of reaction. Nevertheless, he tried his best to appear as cultured as possible when having a conversation. He was, according to some, a man of pitifully sweet manners, which I'm sure some Freudians out there would say that those are a sign of some hidden depravities deep within the man.
…
No Timmy. I don't hate the man. I never even met the guy.
…
Look, it's just a damn story, alright? If you keep asking these questions I might forget to take my meds and there would be no story to tell, okay?
Moving on…
…
After some time, the door to the Mayor's office swung open. Edgar's breathing hitched, forcing his brain into remembering the image that stood at the doorway; a plain grey shirt with a brown duster hanging from one arm and a bloodied assault rifle in the other. Light brown pants definitely weren't supposed to go with the white shoes he was wearing, just like the bandoliers on his chest and around his waist, all stuffed with ammo. In short, a person who went against all the preconceived notions that Edgar had built up when expecting to meet with those disgusting farmfolk. He should be wearing, I dunno, some overalls and generic white shirts underneath and speak with those accents so thick and unruly that it would be your moral obligation to scold the man for being alive.
Edgar, however, chose to remain silent.
"Howdy, mayor."
"G-good afternoon to you too –"
"Eservelfeldt." He put a finger on his lips.
"Eservelfeldt. Right. Please have a seat."
The lad hummed as he took his time to walk and sit down, stretching and yawning all the while. He took the liberty of putting the rifle on the desk, as if expecting to see the mayor's reaction. The latter took a look at the gun. It was one of those bandit-made you could find in the wasteland; built from hands that probably never saw a gun in their whole life. In other words, a hard sell to anyone with functioning eyes, though he guessed that people didn't choose guns for their aesthetics. Otherwise they would carry Jakobs.
"It is with my pleasure that I report the job of exterminating the local bandit population to be a success, as per our agreement."
The lad looked at Edgar in the eye and smiled. For Edgar, it was like witnessing a barracuda trying to mimic human facial expressions. He scolded himself for disrespecting such a law-abiding citizen and moved on.
"Excellent. Allow me to congratulate you on behalf of our humble community."
"Oh! You flatter me! It's my duty as a… um… model citizen to… aid my community in making it better… and stuff…"
An awkward silence passed between the two as their expectations went past each other like two neighbors that were on bad terms. Edgar was well aware of what the Vault Hunter wanted. Problem is, he didn't have it. He looked at the grandfather clock placed near a calendar depicting some of the most beautiful places the galaxy had to offer. Then his eyes quickly returned to meet with the lad's as if afraid that he might have done some kind of an unpardonable sin. It didn't help that the Vault Hunter raised his eyebrows in expectation.
"Hah! Well, um, good! On behalf of the town I, um, E-Edgar Stanford III, will be now giving you your, hm… compensation. Please wait."
He spun around, screaming at himself for not repeating the damn script. He removed an old painting and opened a safe, quickly grabbing all of the town's funds. With his heart beating a mile a minute, he returned to the table and unceremoniously dumped the stacks of cash in front of the young lad. Contrary to his optimistic thinking, the lad began counting the money, frowning after handling the final stack of dollars.
"This isn't the agreed sum."
That sentence was said with such calmness that to the mayor it seemed creepy as all hell. Like he was speaking a fact. Like, for example, saying that the grass is green or water is wet. A fact. A fact that our mayor didn't like. Quick, he thought, remember the script! The script was the word of God he needed to get out of this situation without a body bag. What he didn't know was that the protagonist of the story barely paid attention to that at all. His eighteenth birthday was coming soon and that meant having a party with his friends as well as getting presents from them, as was always the case from their first year of working together. He already had enough money for rent and there was plenty of it for the party. The money for this job was supposed to go to ammo and maybe buy a weapon or two at the local vending machine, if the gun trafficker in question would ever bother to put a decent weapon for sale that is. It saved him the effort of going out there and murdering a small village's worth of bandits to get them himself.
"Oh well… it's close enough I guess. Though next time –"
"I promise I'll pay the whole sum in a few days! Please spare me!"
Throwing in the dumpster all of his dignity right then and there, Edgar fell on his knees and begged for his life, his nerves reaching the breaking point. The lad blinked, silently pocketed the money (and stole one of Edgar's fancy pens) and quietly left, wanting to leave the awkward scene as soon as possible. The mayor, on the other hand, was scared shitless and immediately threw himself into making bullshit excuses that would steal the remaining dollars from the pockets of the citizens just so he could pay the job in full.
Maybe the scene would have played out differently in different circumstances. Maybe our lad would, I dunno, flip the table and give a rant or two. But that didn't happen. A thought had occurred to him lately; that there really wasn't a perspective for a good, interesting life on Pandora. Three out of four scenarios could always be solved with guns almost every day of the year. It might be counter-intuitive, but this trend tends to get old really fast. You learn to adapt to the excitement, to all the noise and to all other nasty things. And soon you realize how stale it gets. Don't know, maybe someone sane would say that it's finally time to seek therapy or some shit.
I'm trying to say that when peace makes it into a sinful soul like that, it has the same effect as water pouring down on dry land and makes it fertile. It takes a while for someone like our lad to understand this and, when that happens, they realize that the environment they share will never give them that. He was thinking of leaving Pandora behind and start a new life somewhere else. But where to start was the question of the ages. He had no formal education, as schools were practically nonexistent. Everything he learned was through the help of few books he could find and some lessons given to him by his friends.
As he walked home, he passed by the house of El Erigido, meaning the Erected. Tall and thin, he walked as if he had a broom up his ass and was so rigid that whoever gave him that title had hit the target down to a tee. This dignified gentleman had no merits other than his face: he earned his daily bread with it, because women tend to be stupid around pretty faces like that, meaning he didn't have to work a single day in his life to make a living. People say he used to hunt the biggest animals he could find on Pandora for sport and even fought in a Circle of Death or two. I don't know if you can believe that, to be honest with you. The only place where he used to be brave was around women; and since every woman he knew used to believe in him as if he were the Gospel, he lived a pretty decent life.
Our lad passed by the man's house. The Erected listened to a kid rambling about ghosts and how he was scared of them, to the point that he couldn't get a wink of sleep at night. He was on the verge of crying when a gun with a silencer was pushed in his hands.
"No such thing as ghosts, hijo. If you see one at night, you shoot him with this."
Morbid as it might be, our protagonist felt something tugging at his heart. In his mind, he envisioned this scene as a conversation between a father and a son – you can bet your ass he never said that out loud, everyone would laugh at him – about harsh realities of life. He wondered how it would feel like to be a father, start a family and live happily ever after. The prospect of finding "the one" for him was slim to none. There were hardly people his age walking around Pandora.
He also passed by the house of old man Vitoe. A truly remarkable grandpa who lived on his own despite being unable to do so due to old age. Our lad waved at the man, trying his best to make a natural smile without being awkward. Vitoe, ever the pedantic individual, looked at him in a sort of old-man-confused manner, as if seeing something that shouldn't be there. Thing is, this fossil completely lost track of time, meaning he has gone senile in a rather funny way. By the way, rumors had it that the old fart used to be a Dahl officer back in the day, feared for his habit of drinking blood of the people he had interrogated in his soundproof room whenever his colleagues reported funny business going on among the enslaved populace. But that's not all, kids, oh no. The best part about the bastard is that, somewhere down the line, he began counting time backwards, talking about past events as if they have yet to happen. That, my children, is how life gives you an endless supply of ideas for comedy skits.
But our lad wasn't in the mood for comedy. Not much at least. A thought about him being like that elderly man one day, all alone in his solitude, unnerved him a bit. What was happening to him lately? He didn't know, though he suspected it was an age issue. The thought of becoming an adult now irritated him. Ironic as it might sound, he began to wonder; where was his youth? Where were all the life experiences he was supposed to get at this age? Why was that taken from him? Is it already over? Our disgruntled protagonist went home after a long day of work and boredom.
End of story for tonight, kids. Yes, we'll continue tomorrow. Now go to bed.
A warm welcome to first-timers, to those who never read my other fics. Hello to my older readers as well. This fic is something that came to my one day when I read the first story I wrote, now discontinued, and asked myself if things would be different this time just because I have more experience with writing that I lacked back then. So I decided to have some fun and post a "rewrite" of sorts. I put the quotation marks there because it's not gonna be a complete rewrite nor a reboot or something like that. Some story elements will remain but everything else will change.
Go casual with the story. Really do. It's not going to get frequent updates as it is something that got me in the moment. When that feeling comes again, or when I just need to vent or whatever, you can be sure you will get another chapter.
Let me know what you think in the comments.
