A Rough Life

Mr Zombie   June 20, 2017   11 Comments on A Rough Life

He is awoken from slumber by a repetitive beeping.  Rolling over, he silences the alarm for exactly ten minutes.  He’s tired.

10 peaceful minutes pass, then he climbs out from a warm cocoon made of blanket and mattress to an indoor atmosphere, perfectly heated to a cosy 21 degrees celsius.  Swings his bare feet onto plush carpet and yawns.  Another day, fuck, life is tough.

In a partially tiled room he opens a huge rectangular cuboid and is greeted by a burst of cold air.  From within the cuboid a plastic container is taken, opened, and the contents poured over a bowl of oats.  He has no idea where either the milk or the oats originated from, not really.  Nor does he pause to consider this, fresh milk from a cow and oats from a field yet he owns neither.

The bowl is placed within a smaller rectangular cuboid, a dial turned and microwave radiation agitates water molecules to heat the food to perfection.  He stares at the slowly rotating bowl through a window in the cuboid, resenting how long it takes.

He walks into a tiled room, takes off his clothes, turns a dial on the wall and heated water is emitted from a pipe.  With a couple of fine adjustments the water is at the optimum temperature and he cleanses himself to music that is beamed from a small cube stuck to the wall.  Checking a device on his wrist that can tell him the time of day to the nearest second, he curses.  Late!

After dressing he saunters out of the house that protects him from the weather and climbs into the belly of a giant metallic steed.  With the twist of a slither of metal complicated machinery fires into life.  A refined liquid fuel, the origins of which were dug up from far below the earths crust thousands of miles away, powers the machinery.  The machinery is complicated beyond his understanding, but he curses his luck as it takes a couple of attempts to start in the chilly morning air.

Leaning back into a comfortable seat and depressing a lightly weighted pedal with his foot he is able to move 100’s of kilograms of metal and plastic and rubber with ease.  He travels at speeds that would be impossible using his manpower alone, yet he spends the journey stressed and cursing the other humans in their abhorrent mobile thrones for being in his way.  The wonder of travelling quiet comfort whilst humming along a near perfectly surface evades him.

Forty five minutes and 25 miles later he arrives at his place of employment, in another city.  Sitting at his desk and staring out floor to ceiling windows he shakes his head at his stressful morning.

A plastic box on the desk delivers a shrill tone.  Picking up and pressing a small part of the box against his head he begins to speak.  After talking into the plastic contraption for twenty minutes he has solved a problem on the other side of the city, without standing up.

Speaking into a plastic box.  Tapping small squares on another box.  Walking 10 steps, depressing a button and impatiently waiting for a freshly brewed coffee with beans from Columbia.  Repetition.  9 hours pass.

Sometime after the sun has arced through the sky and the moon once again reasserts it’s claim over the skyline he stands up and vacates the building he spent the sunlight hours within.  After walking for 2 minutes he climbs back into his giant metallic throne and glides homeward.

Whilst sliding through the darkness he pulls a glass brick from his pocket, taps at the glass for a moment and then presses the brick against his ear.  Waves scream out of the brick in all directions and picked up by a large metallic structure some distance away, built for this singular purpose.   He talks into the brick.  A conversation takes place from miles apart, one travelling over 60mph, through glass bricks and an agreement is reached.  Both utter the same word into their bricks one after another and then stop talking.  “Shitty signal”, the man remarks.

The lady he spoke to through the shining glass brick greets him as he climbs out of the gliding throne and asks how his day was.  “Pretty rough”, is the reply.

They walk inside together.  The lady opens a bottle of red liquid containing the fermented remains of fruit that was grown in Argentina and pours two glasses.  The man sits and once again pulls the glass brick from his pocket.  This time he taps, pinches and slides his fingers across the screen, pulling in and sending out packets of data with incredible rapidity.  Minutes later another man knocks on their door and hands them some freshly prepared food.

Over eating they discuss how hard their respective days have been and how prior generations had it easier.

11 thoughts on “A Rough Life

    1. Mr Zombie Post author

      Thank you Mrs ETT, really enjoyed writing it. Nearly didn’t post it as wasn’t sure it fit in
      Mr Z


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