Steps Toward Civilization Part One

Chapter One: Applying Strict Measures

The General surveyed his troops. They were all young, and frankly, that was the only way it would work. Some were now out of high school, staring off into the ether, thinking more than anything. But all the same, a few new young faces were eagerly following The General's every move. Some swallowed loudly, nervous about what they had heard, which was uncontrovertibly true.

  'No one ever makes it in,' the most foolish rumors stated. The large assembly of 15-20 year olds was a testament to the acceptance of high school boys.

  'They always kill one, just for kicks.' Then why do new recruits keep coming?

  'I heard that only three are allowed in a month.' That, on the other hand, is reasonable.

  The General saw six new faces. He maintained his stony exterior as he closed in on the smallest boy. He couldn't have been more than 13 years. He wore a 'hero of the working class' hat. Emo pop culture. The General looked him right in the eyes.

  'What insignificant speck told you this little get together was for communists?' The General finally spoke into the small child's ear, loud enough to startle him and have the rest of the crowd hear it too.

  'I...I...just like this hat?' he mumbled, as sweat beaded on his forehead. Even though The General was only 16 years old, younger than most of the other boys, his presence was both awesome and terrifying.

  'You what?' The General demanded

  'I like it?'
 
  'No, what did you say exactly?' The boy began to whimper.

  'I just?'

  'You NEVER just do anything! Everything you say and do and wear and eat and listen to will represent The Faction! And wearing the hat of that idyllic, fanciful, working community represents communism?' The General snapped the hat off of the boy's head and threw it into the fireplace. The basement was usually cold, and this new fodder added strange warmth to the room. Subconsciously, they drew in around the blaze and the tormented child.

The General had eliminated one. The other five looked eager as ever, not traumatized by the incident. One even smiled with confidence. The General eyed him next. He took a knee down by the boy and stared him right in the eyes. A smile crept across The General's face. His slightly crooked teeth peeked out, and his cheeks turned upwards, unnatural for such a stoic man.
'You have something to smile about worm? What's making you happy?'

'I guess I thought...'

'ONE!' The General yelled disapprovingly, 'One, we do not guess at anything! The Faction makes decisions, and is always certain. Two, we have nothing to be happy about. Smiling implies satisfaction, and no change arises from satisfaction!'

Four. The rest were as calm as ever. They all stared blankly now, assuming that Zen-like clarity would deliver them all. The General took his time. He paced back and forth, stopping often to look at the potentials. After some time, the ensigns began to feel that soon they would be brought in, all four, because all were in line.

Suddenly, as if flipping a switch, The General made his choice. Whipped from his long black coat was a Single Action Army, a smooth, black matte finish had been applied to the entire surface. One shot rang out, and the far right boy lay dead, mid-yawn.

'There will be no slouching. Laziness implies we have nothing to do, and yet, we are quite busy.' The General marched out of the basement into his private office with the two attending bodyguards. Several officers followed as well, and a few remained outside to clean up and swear in the new recruits. The near right boy sat horrified, the expression of fear solidified on his face, splattered with the blood of a stranger. His name was Arthur.



Chapter Two: Institutionalized

The next morning was tough. Arthur was ready to expect anything, but you only have to wash blood off of your face once to get pretty fucked up. He looked in the mirror of his W.C. and noticed the bags under his eyes. He was extremely tired. Once all was said and done, the meeting had carried on until two in the morning. They were encouraged to continue studies at school as usual, and encouragement was not optional in The Faction.

“Six minus two…” Arthur thought as he laughed in the mirror. Fortunately this didn’t happen every night.

On the ride to school he remembered what had brought him to seek The Faction. It was on the first day of his freshman year, when the announcements warbled over the loudspeaker second period. The principal made a formal announcement to the entering student body. The speech was one of those cookie-cutter, right out of the principal rule book speeches:

“The entire staff would like to welcome all of the students, entering and returning, to ______ High School. We hope that the next four years are the best ones of your life. The institution of a High School….”

And that was all it took. Institution? Institutions are places where crazy people go to be held up so they don’t hurt themselves. Hospitals are institutions. So are prisons. The following weeks of class testified that High School was very much like both.

Prisons have windows, with bars on them, but _____ High School had no windows, and despite pleas from students and teachers this climate challenge did not alter the unbearable temperatures in the School. The AC pumped in the summer, forcing kids to overdress, jackets, long pants, only to be met by the blazing heat of late May. The heat scorched in the winter, layers were an essential. Cold? Good thing you have on short sleeves, but two jackets. Hot, just go with the short sleeves.

Hospitals might imply a level of cleanliness. However, this was not the case. The lingering smell of human waste was in the halls, remnants of the unclean bathrooms. People are always walking around, and you can’t leave or come in without a good deal of fuss. In that way, ______ High School was like a Hospital.

But the most stunning comparison was to a mental hospital. A whole lot of people who don’t reason with a full set of cards. The teachers lied, the administrators were crooked, and most of the Driver Education teachers were nearly blind. Who else but a crazy person would put someone with Coke bottle glasses behind the auxiliary wheel of an automobile?

And even so, thought Arthur as he opened up his locker and prepared for first period, was that all it took? One more thing flashed on in his head. Near the end of his freshman year, he received a letter from the principal. The signature was printed on. To this day the content of the letter is lost to the annals of history. However, what caught Arthur’s eye was the black, weakly Xeroxed scrawl of his High School principal’s John Hancock. Since when did forgery be come an active and acceptable business practice? Arthur, from that day forward, decided to look for a way to fight the hypocrisy.

The Faction was one of a few groups for alternative thinkers. It was, though, the largest and most active, often seeking new members due to its dangerous activities and nature. Arthur had known no better than anyone else who had heard of the meeting in the dark basement that was looking for people who wanted to change the way the school worked drastically.

The Faction, Arthur remembered, is against the Institutions.



Chapter Three: Mr. N.

Arthur was not in the habit of liking his teachers. Even before he had come to the stunning conclusion that things really needed to change, he never enjoyed school. He realized that most of the teachers were people who had no business forming any kind of lasting relationship with minors. They weren’t role models, they were hypocrites. His Health teacher in eighth grade was a smoker. Who else to warn you against the dangers of tobacco than a man who took breaks during class to light up?

Albeit, he liked Mr. N. Mr. N was an English teacher, and he reminded Arthur of Robin William’s character in Dead Poets Society. He took all of the bullshit out of teaching and being a member of the system and broke it down into a very simple way of looking at things. He was a nihilist, an anti-transcendentalist, and on a good day, an anarchist. Just like Arthur. Mr. N was reading from Anthony Burgess.

“Can any of you well protected and sheltered students tell me why Alex acts the way he does? Why does he attack, fight, steal, drink, abuse substances, and even go so far as to kill people?” It was a good day. A meek little girl, who had become accustomed to being wrong but speaking out anyway, raised her hand.

“He’s been tainted by society. He got forced into acting bad by influences around him.”

There was a general murmur of consent moving about the room. Arthur had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing, he knew what was coming.

“No.” Mr. N said rather simply, “That is absolutely incorrect, there is no proof and no reason behind that answer. You have obviously created it as a generic reason for the wrongs in the world. Does anyone really know why?”

Arthur gave it a moment before raising his hand up. He had a mildly smug grin on his face.

“Well, uh, it seems to me that Alex just likes to watch the world go wrong. He enjoys things being chaotic as opposed to orderly. That’s why he purposefully disobeys all of his authority figures, and makes things happen instead of waiting for an accident.” Arthur liked the questions in English. He could be himself instead of being one of the common sheep who roamed the halls. He fetched a few concerned glances, but a couple of mildly impressed ones as well.

“Very good Arthur, one thing though.” Mr. N returned, “I understand enjoying chaos, the purposeful disobedience, even the “watching the world” comment. But what do you mean making things happen?”

This was one of the few times that Arthur and Mr. N had butted heads on a comment. Usually they clicked fairly well, but moments like these would have attracted Mr. Alex from A Clockwork Orange as well. You could tell that two things were at odds, and it could end explosively.

“Well, he initiates chaos. You can’t be an anarchist, which I believe personally that Alex is, without causing trouble. If he just looked for, like, friggin car accidents or something, he would be some kind of opportunist. That seems unlike him.”

“But don’t people cause all accidents? It’s foolish to associate the word with things that happen on their own. Car accidents, after all, are almost entirely caused by substance abuse and drinking. That’s someone’s fault.”

“That’s exactly what I mean! Alex would have loved to have, like, run over some pedestrians when they stole the car; that would have made him happy. He feels like he needs to go out and cause the problem.”

Mr. N smiled. He got what he was looking for. The bell rang, and Arthur left. He was smiling too.



Chapter Four: The General

The General is sixteen years old. The age is hardly flattering, if you’ve ever been sixteen you know that it is an age squandered by acne and awkwardness. Puberty claims its most horrifying spoils at that age. It removes the somewhat congenial nature of the child and creates the adolescent. Adolescents are notoriously deceitful, when at times they may seem polite and respectful, they are actually spitting on the hamburger. This is only half of the General’s story.

The General got his simple codename for his position. He is the General of the Faction, the only general for that matter. It would make a fairly interesting story to tell of a young man driven to seek success and becoming the leader of a radical association. This isn’t how his story goes.

The General joined the Faction at 13, the youngest member admitted. Then, the Faction was a group of like-minded individuals, dreamers. The General hated the slow pace immediately, and looked for ways to change things. He started spurring the members, prodding actual action, protests, thefts, acquisition of necessities. Naturally the elders of the group were disappointed. They wished for him to leave, so he killed them, claiming himself the leader of the newly reformed Faction. He wasn’t without followers; many of the old group remained loyal to him. Many would follow them.



The second meeting was the next night. Arthur entered the same dank basement and looked about. His superiors were many, but he looked in awe at the greatest of them all.

The General. He was no specimen of human perfection. He was plagued by acne and poor physical development. He was short, but stocky. However, he maintained a presence, a pair of dark sunglasses hid his eyes from all who looked upon him. His mouth shaped out a half scowl, half arrogant smirk. He hadn’t spoken since Arthur arrived, but looked to him now.

“I splattered you didn’t I?” he said, as if the words made sense to everyone.

Arthur was stunned. He was speaking with the General, the hero of his ideals that he venerated, practically prayed to.

“Um…yeah, you shot that guy right next to me. You’re a…uhm…great shot.” Arthur started to break a cold sweat, the droplets forming on his forehead.

“Yes. It would seem that I am. Are you? Have you ever fired a weapon before?”
         
“No…well, I guess. I went turkey hunting with my uncle a few years ago. But that was bird shot, you know…”

“Yes of course. Try this.” He threw Arthur a compact handgun. The clip was already in, but the safety was on. He flicked it off instinctively, and held it tenderly.

“Uh…wh-what….uh, should I fire at?” The gun was heavy for its size, and the metal was cool to the touch.

“Shoot there.” The General pointed to a wall littered with holes, a crude target was painted on it. There weren’t very many holes near the middle of the bullseye.

Arthur had to recall the brief trip to the woods with his uncle. The situation, of course was completely different, but any similarity was comforting, he was human after all. He closed one eye, aimed, and fired. The shot rang out loud and clear, a piercing sound of cracking stone went off. A smoking hole was left right near the center of the target.

“Holy shit! That was almost as close as the General!” one of the nameless Lieutenants yelled.

The General turned to Arthur, and lowered his glasses, making his eyes barely visible. The grayish hue permeated Arthur.

“What’s your name ensign?”
         
“Arthur, sir.”

“You aren’t an ensign anymore. Private First Class is your new distinction. Understand?” The General barked.

“Of course.” Arthur tried to return the gun.

“Apparently you don’t. That’s yours, PFC Arthur. You got promoted, you get a gun.” The General folded Arthur’s fingers over the handle. “Don’t be stupid though. You get caught, you don’t know me. Right?”

“Of course, sir.” Arthur nodded and concealed the weapon as best as he could.

“You want another promotion, sit through this meeting. Learn the objective, and try to help. If you succeed, you might be a corporal very quickly.” The General had maintained his stature; he didn’t even flinch when a second shot rang out down the range into the target. One of the Lieutenants had made the shot, his smoking bullet hole almost a foot from the center.

“Damn it!” he cursed under his breath, clutching the bulky Desert Eagle. He stormed off toward the meeting room.

This was Ector.


Chapter Five: Ector

         When Ector was born, he was immediately put up for adoption. His mother was a young girl not yet out of High School, and she had no intention of taking care of a child. Ector was put into the care of a pair of strangers who raised him until he was about ten years old. They were killed in a car accident, and he was shipped off to foster care. He waited for a permanent home until he was 15 years old. He was adopted by an older gentleman who tried to inject his brand of religious ideals into Ector.

         By the time he was 17, Ector had killed his “father” and found the Faction. Legend holds that he was influenced by the General to kill his father, but it’s ludicrous to suggest some form of telepathic destiny. Ector had killed him only because he wanted to. The Faction provided his new home, in the dusty old basement where the second meeting that Arthur attended took place.

         Arthur was glowing when he entered the small room, surrounded by officers, near his new subordinates. The other successful recruit wasn’t present. Perhaps things hadn’t gone as he expected them to.

“Attention, Faction members. We call to order the second meeting of the charter designated Autumn 20--. Are all in attendance secretary?”

“No, Ensign Tom is not present.”

“See to it that he is informed of his forgetfulness.”

The Lieutenants spoke for the General entirely in front of the other officers. The act seemed pretentious and royal, but Arthur saw something deeper. He snapped his attention back when he heard his own name.

“Ensign Arthur has proven his prowess with a weapon to the General, and has ascended to the rank of PFC. He carries a military grade Beretta. Respect him, all who are subordinate.”

“New objectives are in order. Do we have any successes to tell of first?”

A pale and sickly looking teen in a dark shirt with thick glasses stood.

“Success was met with the procuring of the maps needed to perform Ultimate Task.”

“Congratulations Sergeant. Please be seated.”

“New Objectives will follow, any more completed missions?”

Silence. Some seemed nervous.

“New objectives then…first level: Ensigns, PFC’s, Corporals, you are in charge of discovering the most efficient way to gain more ammunition for practice and practicality. Keep in mind, we need to reserve what we have, so no plan can involve firearms. Understood?”

A low grumble, fortunately, let go by the superiors.

“Second level: Officers only, meet with the General in Private HQ for new missions and strategic discussion.”

Epic strife was about to hit the dank little basement.

“Why can’t I hear about the strategy!? I’m pulling my weight around!” a loud corporal was pointing at the General. “I want equal rights, I deserve to know what I’m contributing aside from a body!”

The General stood. His mouth opened slightly, and he spoke very slowly.

“You must…understand…you will achieve your goals if you follow our lead…instead of breaking away.”

Arthur knew now that things could easily go south. He kept his mouth shut.

“I don’t understand how we are supposed to achieve a system of equal treatment if we are led by a dictator!” He had looked fairly intelligent to Arthur, but this was clearly a demonstration of his ignorance.

Ector stood now. He looked at the corporal in the eyes, he had large, unkempt eyebrows.

“Now, there is no reason to make accusations of inferiority or superiority, we are all just as mature as the last. Secrets must be kept, because you are not necessarily devoted to the cause of the Faction…for example, you have allowed yourself to be made a fool of by standing out against one of our only rules.”

“Fuck your rules fascist!” He was a dead man the moment the words left his mouth.

Ector looked almost calm with the smoking Desert Eagle in his right hand. The trigger was squeezed down, and he seemed like he hadn’t even registered the kickback. The noisy corporal had a perfect circle in his forehead, and a rather larger, jagged one through the back of his neck. He was gurgling, and blood spurted out along with various fluids from his back. Of course, Arthur was lucky enough to score another front row seat. He wiped the sparse dots of red from his face. This was becoming an unusually common occurrence.

*                                        *                                        *

After the body was cleaned up, Arthur walked out of the small room and stood in the antechamber. Ector approached him outside.

“Hey, uh, sorry about that. You might need to sit next to one of us next time, there’s less of a chance that the officers get shot for opposition.” He was a lot less threatening as a person than as a gun.

“It’s alright, I’m thinking about bringing a poncho tomorrow.” The joke hit air, but it must have died before it reached Ector’s ears. Arthur thought it was funny, Ector thought he was serious.

“You know you’re an O.K. kid, I’d like to see you make your way onto the board, make some more serious suggestions. Let me tell you a secret.” He drew in closer to Arthur, grabbing his shoulder roughly. He had a kung-fu grip.

“There is an antique shop on Birch and 4th. It sells old world weapons and ammo to collectors. The little old lady that runs the place is a traditionalist, of sorts, I’ve noticed that she doesn’t have any cameras in the store. You could easily get your hands on, at least, an automatic pistol. Give it a shot, huh?”

Arthur nodded, nervously. Ector walked off, and once he was out of sight, Arthur grasped his shoulder. The next morning, he would have a bruise from Ector’s hand.


Chapter Six: Hannigan’s Sundries, Rarities, and Antiquities

Josiah Hannigan moved into the town of --------- when he was 53 years old. He was Irish-Jewish, and found himself in a sort of odd place. There were piles of old books collecting dust from his inheritance, and no money left in his vault. So, he dusted the books, bought a fleet of shelves, and set up various knick-knackery in “Hannigan’s First Editions”. He sold no books in his first week, but people snatched up the various items, either through trades or fair purchase. He put more of his old world crap on the shelves than books, and eventually made enough money to be considered well off and change the sign outside to read “Hannigan’s Sundries, Rarities, and Antiquities”. He died at the age of 60 from lung cancer. The old man had seen the trend of antiques coming, but not the dangers of smoking three packs a day. He left huge caches of money and a thriving shop to his daughters, Josie and Naomi. Josie died at the age of 30 from a traffic incident, leaving the now spoiled fortune and now failing shop to Naomi. Naomi runs the store today; she is healthy, mobile, and nearly 90 years old. She has yet to return phone calls to concerned parties about the state of her security.

Arthur decided to look around the store himself. It wasn’t very far from his home; most of the landmarks around town weren’t. He had passed by Hannigan’s shop several times before, mostly while on trips with his parents to the downtown shops on Christmas. The store smelled like cigars and shoe polish. The walls were covered with faded pictures of ancient landmarks, all for sale to the highest bidder. A corner of toys and board games stacked up to the ceiling filled the store with a splash of cheap plastic color. Finally, Arthur looked upon the glass case that Ector had indicated. It was filled with old guns: a Walther automatic pistol, several Colt Single Action Army’s, even a few worn out rifles with matching ammo sitting next to them. The case was locked, but it was also glass, so not necessarily a real problem. Arthur had noticed it too. There wasn’t a single camera operating in the store. He looked up, and got a sudden shock to meet the wrinkly old eyes of Naomi Hannigan.

“Taken an interest in the firearms, hmm?” She almost pronounced “firearms” without the vowels.

“Yes…” Arthur said slowly, “I wanted to ask you a question actually.”

Naomi looked practically ready to collapse, her feeble old legs wobbled like grape jelly, and her hands shook like they were being shaken by a tremor.

“I was wondering,” Arthur began awkwardly, as this was a suspicious question to ask, “if these were for display purposes only?”

She thought, placing a trembling hand on her chin.

“Well’m, as far as I know, they all work like they used to, ‘cept those Magnums’re models that don’t use the same type of bullets. I do believe they all work just fine. You interested in buying? What fer?”
“Well, I’m going to a shooting range with my father, and I wanted to try a variety of guns. You know, for recreation.” Arthur smiled with his teeth, and she smiled back, without hers.

“State requires three days, so I kin write you up fer’um. But you’ll have to wait till they’re ready for you.” She said this plainly, lacking her former Grandmotherliness, and becoming a businesswoman.

“Oh, well I’m afraid it will be too late then. Perhaps you can make an exception?” He asked with an air of unfortunate circumstance.

“I can sell you shells. Or bullets. But no firearms. Need three days fer that.”

“Very well…perhaps on my next trip Miss…?”

“Hannigan. Like on the sign.”

“Thank you.”

He left the store, smiling still. He would be ready for her by the next night.


Chapter Seven: Deep

         Arthur was wearing all black. He had stopped just outside of the antique store, and prepared himself. He pulled from the humongous duffel bag a ski mask, which he slipped gently over his head. He pulled over his hands a pair of latex surgical gloves, then a pair of cloth gloves, then another pair of latex. He wiggled his fingers. They still moved freely, despite the extra layers. He laced up the tall boots and tucked his pants into them. The duffel bag was now empty, and he threw it over his shoulder. He felt down the front of his pants, and touched the cold metal of the gun. He was entirely prepared.

         The store was locked up and dark on the inside. He pulled two paperclips from his pocket and uncoiled them, inserting the ends into the lock. He wiggled them around, and felt the tumblers yield as he turned the pair like a key. He stepped softly into the front area and flicked on his pocket-sized flashlight. The light finally passed over the glass surface, and a glare of light shined up into his eyes. He walked over, and examined the lock. There wasn’t one naturally placed on the case, but a miniscule luggage lock was jimmy-rigged onto the box of weapons that shined in the dim light. He took the paper clip out again and very quickly snapped the lock open. He slid the door to the side and started filling the duffel with black guns and boxes of metal death. He quietly closed the case again and zipped up the bag. His flashlight went up suddenly as he heard a noise on the creaky floor.

         Naomi Hannigan stood, eyes as large as saucers, clutching a baseball bat in her hands. She, for once, wasn’t shaking. Arthur kept the light on her, and tried to get up. As he stood he put his hand on the gun in his pants and pulled it out. He left the safety on.

“Don’t move. Don’t follow me. I won’t hurt you.” He tried to distort his voice, so the old lady wouldn’t recognize him.

“DON’T YOU MOVE! I’LL COME AFTER YOU YOUNG MAN!” She screamed shrilly, and moved near Arthur, the bat rose over her head. She started off towards him and swung down. Arthur moved away, and the glass case suffered a large crack. She swung the heavy bat up and grazed Arthur’s cheek. The ski mask slipped off, and she stared at his face.

Arthur knew what would happen if he ran, but he knew what he have to do if he didn’t do that. She had seen him. He pointed his gun at her and shot her head, nearly point blank.

People don’t tell you much about guns, mostly because the details are gruesome. For example, if you shoot someone in the head, and the gun isn’t powerful enough, the person doesn’t die right away. Most of the time, the bullet will fail to pierce through the other side of the head, even if shot at point blank. Also, if you shoot a gun close enough to hair the flame from the blast will cause it to ignite. If, say, an elderly woman who uses hairspray to keep her curls intact over night was shot at point blank by a low caliber handgun she would collapse in flames and scream like a banshee. Arthur was one of the first people to witness the fire that burned down Hannigan’s, and the only person who watched Naomi die.

         Arthur ran home and shut the door quietly behind him. He had stashed the large cache of weapons in the Faction safe house, but hadn’t stayed for long. The blood was starting to dry on his face, and tiny bits of brain matter and skull fragments were stuck to his heavy hooded sweatshirt. He stripped down and saw that the blood had seeped down his collar, and he was covered in caked human remains. He scrubbed in the shower until the water ran red. He pulled bits and pieces of Miss Hannigan out of his hair and threw them down the drain. He let the water soak him thoroughly before he even thought about what to do with his clothes.

         He picked up the pile of black, stained outerwear and stashed it beneath a loose floorboard under his bed. He placed his gun right on top of the pile and replaced the board. He needed to sleep badly, so he got ready for bed. As he brushed his teeth he dislodged a piece of flesh from between his incisors. He vomited in his sink, and brushed again. He looked at his eyes in the mirror. He stared at the cold murderer on the wall, the thief who stole for a revolution, and he came to the realization. He was in now. He was really a member. He was in deep, and there was no swimming out.


Chapter Eight: That Girl

         Arthur was at school the next morning, despite the fact that he had spent most of the night washing himself of the evening’s sordid events. He walked the halls like the living dead, his head bowed, staring at his feet. That is until he heard the chipper voice of that girl.

“Hi Arthur, what’s the matter?” she said, as he looked up to see his visitor.

She was gorgeous, to say the least. She had beautiful locks of wavy, strawberry blonde hair, and bright green eyes. She was buxom, to say the least, and very tall for a girl a year younger than Arthur. They met eye to eye eventually, but on the way up, Arthur took his time raising his head to examine her form. That beautiful girl was right there, and it made him smile for the first time today.

“Hi,” he said calmly, ignoring her question. She wasn’t one to give up though.

“C’mon Arthur. Something’s bugging you. I can tell, we’ve had classes together for years, and you always act like this when you, like, forget to write an essay, or lose one of your textbooks. What happened yesterday?”

He was dying of laughter on the inside at the thought of telling her the sequence of events that occurred the night before. He decided to keep that to himself.

“Nothing. I guess I just didn’t sleep very well.” He was used to this girl asking him about his life. It was true, they had been in classes since elementary school, and they had been fairly close for a while. They had drifted like great wooden ships, into the fog of high school life. She was in Theatre, on the Speech team, and active in her school’s environmental program. Arthur killed people in order to satisfy the needs of a revolutionary genius. To say the least, their attraction was purely physical.

It may seem odd to our readers, but Arthur had a modest female following, despite his outwardly unappealing personality and average looks. Something attracted them like flies to an abandoned picnic. Arthur had always figured they went for his faux badass demeanor, which was rather justified in light of recent events.

“What’s your next class today?” She seemed to always smile, and her diction was exact, an imprint of spending the past two years practicing formalized speeches.

“English, with Mr. N.” he lit up slightly in excitement.

“Oh, he’s that weirdo isn’t he? Always rooting for the bad-guys, or the delinquents, huh? I don’t know about him, it seems like he tries too hard, almost like he’s constantly playing devil’s advocate. You know what I mean?”

“Hmm.” Arthur mumbled in reply. These monosyllabic gestures of boredom were common in his speech, but he began to think about what she said as they walked down the hall.

Mr. N did seem awfully adamant about his approach to understanding the novel’s main antagonist. He seemed to like the bad things they did, and enjoyed reading about gruesome human nature. But wasn’t it all a little odd, his behavior, his inclination toward the evil or unjust? Arthur would have to look into it.

“I don’t think he’s really that great of a revolutionist.” The girl said suddenly.

“What, uh, what is that supposed to mean?” Arthur stumbled, how the hell would she know about…?

“I’m joking; you look like you’re off in space! Maybe I should come back after you wake up, alright? I’ll talk to you later Arthur.” She wrapped her arms around him in a friendly embrace, and his face felt slightly warm and tingly as he walked down the hall to his English class. All this thought and trouble, from that girl.


Chapter Nine: The Devil Locked Eyes

         Arthur took his seat in class and got out the novel that his class had started earlier that week. A Clockwork Orange had gone over smoothly for Arthur and this particular new book appealed to a new sensation of mind-bending philosophy and intrigue.

“Now,” Mr. N. began, “can anyone tell me the importance of Philip K. Dick’s use of the drug Substance D? Why does he choose to use a fictional drug instead of one that already exists in A Scanner Darkly?”

The class was silent as it was nearly everyday, and a grim hand rose up from the desk of a rather squat and ugly young man with a thin patchy layer of stubble. Arthur immediately recognized him as a Faction member. The answer should have been rather compelling.

“Well, uh, other drugs already have, like, signs of addiction and usage. He wanted another set of symptoms to manipulate himself.”

“Hmmm…not bad…but, that is a reason that a scientist would give, not an English major. What literary reason does he have?”

Arthur was primed and ready, so he just spoke out.

“Well, first of all, I see the relationship in that way as well, but I think it runs deeper than that. You see, Substance D has its own set of side effects, and one of them is the splitting of the hemispheres of the brain. Dick is trying to symbolize the connection, not only between criminal and convict by making Arctor and Fred the same person, but also between the drug-user and his other non-user portions. On one hand you have this level-headed straight shooter, and on the other a very whacked out and strange junkie. It’s a classic literary technique of observing two halves of one whole.”

“What about the fact that A Scanner Darkly…” he paused to write “Scanner Darkly” on the board followed by “Substance D” beneath it, “shares common letters with Substance D?”

“Well, I hardly think that a feeble alliteration is reason for affecting the entire flow and theme of a piece of literary work.”

“I wouldn’t say that, simpler things have affected the title and themes of a novel. 1984 is named so only because Orwell was writing it in 1948 and flipping the final numbers seemed like the most appropriate time period for the novel to occur in.”

“Oh please, Orwell was a silly worrier who took the rise of communism too seriously. He was a doomsayer; he just wanted an excuse to write a novel about things going wrong.”

“Fine, Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing is named because nothing actually happens to affect anything in the piece.”

“And William Shakespeare was a commercialist hack.” Arthur could hardly believe that Mr. N. was using such feeble and stupid arguments for such a nonessential point.

“Now, my point is that Substance D, as a ‘feeble alliteration’ constantly reminds us of the novel’s title, as well as Bob’s soliloquy from chapter seven where he mentions the dark scanners.”

“And my point is that Philip K. Dick was a Science Fiction genius and that his reason had to have been better than that.”

Suddenly Mr. N. looked Arthur straight into his eyes, and glared upon his dark soul. He looked through his pupils into the passages that revealed his nature. Arthur wondered if he could see Ms. Hannigan’s blood on the back of his retinas; because the image was stuck in his mind too. For that brief few seconds, they stared at each other, and the Devil’s eyes locked with the devil’s advocate, and you could have read the story of Revelations between their leer.

Arthur decided by the end of the period that he had rather liked killing the dusty old hag in the antique store and was eager to kill again.


Chapter Ten: Happiness

The next meeting was abuzz with excitement; the news of a successful heist and acquisition of weaponry was announced at the very beginning. Arthur was tense still; the desire of murder was triggering odd reactions to situations.

The feelings had acted oddly upon Arthur, indeed. Earlier that day he came upon his home after a long day of school. His parents were both sitting in the family room and his mother was clutching the tiny handgun that was hidden under the floorboards in his room.

“Arthur, I was cleaning up when I found this in your room. I…” she was speechless. She had raised her son as a devout Christian and taught him to be honest and kind. Any sort of evil was not acceptable in her home. Arthur’s father looked on in placid disapproval. What Arthur did next was surprising, especially to Arthur. He cried.

He broke down, his knees fell to the floor and he clutched his face in his hands. His mother grabbed him around his neck and held him tight. She held him close and patted his back. She offered him kind words and helped him get up. Somehow, he wound up in his room, speaking with his father about keeping things hidden for people. He returned the gun to Arthur and forced him to promise it would be returned to the person who had given it to him.

Arthur laughed at himself after he snuck out of his home late that evening. And as he sat in the meeting, all of what he expected began to unfold.

“We are proud to announce that we have, due to the bravery and resourcefulness of one PFC, come upon a bounty of fuel to power the engine of our vehicle of change.” The words pouring from Ector’s mouth were sickeningly true in Arthur’s eyes; he was now a part of it all.

“In accordance with a successful mission, we would like to call up Private First Class Arthur.” Arthur stood, and walked towards Ector and the general. The General reached into his coat and pulled out an M9 Beretta model handgun-similar to the one Arthur already had. There was a smooth silencer attached to the barrel, and the whole apparatus was painted matte black, to match the decorum of the General.

“In honor of achievements in the face of need, and in the name of the Faction, we award to PFC Arthur the title of Lieutenant to the General and this symbol of our appreciation.” Ector took the gun from the General and handed it to Arthur. It was heavier than the small compact gun, but it still felt fairly light.

Immediately, there was a problem. A young man stood up, slamming a heavy fist against the table. His face was stern and serious, practically carved out of wood.

“I’ve been a Captain for almost a year! He completes some dubious mission, and jumps right up to your right hand man? I want equal treatment!” The loud man shouted at Ector.

“You fail to understand the weight of this mission’s importance. This was not a way of covertly spreading the word of…” Ector began one of his familiar speeches to dignify the choices of the General.

“No! I want HIS answer! The General’s…” He couldn’t muster the strength to yell the final part of his sentence.

The General looked him right in the eye, the dark shaded glasses blinded all from his piercing gaze.

“You are weak, stupid, loud, and boisterous. First, in all of your years as a member, you have failed to make any progress that would actually assist the Faction. You also fail to realize that, after all of these years meeting in the same place, we are in a residential area, and your screaming is counter-productive to the secrecy of our organization. You are not the first member to interrupt a meeting, and you still fail to see that these types of disruptions lead to death. You have done nothing but make a fool of yourself now. I’ll give you a chance, how do you feel about my decision?”

“Fuck you.” His response was curt and quick.

The General leaned toward Arthur and whispered in his ear.

“The honor is yours this time.”

The gun moved faster than he had moved it before, as he unloaded a single shot into the center of the young man’s head. The soft click and muffled charge still reverberated loudly in the small room.

And suddenly Arthur agreed with Lenin and Lennon and Stalin and all. Especially Lennon. Happiness, after all, was a warm gun.