“It occurs to me…your inability to use the brain evolution granted you is none of my fucking concern.”
(There’s a difference between being differently abled and BEING WILFULLY IGNORANT)
[AN: Oh, don’t I know it. Just look at the majority of the Republican Party, anyone wealthy enough to never worry about bills, or Tony Abbott]
They’d carried through with it. The police, who he paid for with his taxes, had done little but make sure a car cruised by his mansion, once a day. And it wasn’t even on time. He would have been far better off paying for an independent security detail. But then, he’d trusted his taxes to work for him.
Then again, They, whoever They really were, had got him while he was in the bathroom.
And now he was in the mud and filth of a half-filled pothole. In an alley that was strewn with garbage, offal, and faeces.
Urien Peel allowed himself three seconds of bemused bawling before he found the strength to at least pull himself out of the noisome puddle. What he could see of the sky was grey. There was no indication of where he was or how to get back to Nirvana Estates.
“You’re going to have to sell that suit, friend,” said a voice from the debris. What he’d thought was another mouldy pile of garbage turned out to be a Noper located somewhere within a baggy, knitted… thing… that he hoped was at least warm. It certainly didn’t look to be good for anything else. Especially the general health of the area.
It would take him some subsequent weeks to learn that the unhealthy-looking colouration of that garment was the product of random dye, and not the mildew and filth that seemed to abound in the area she called Lower Skunge.
But, right now, he tried to recoil without stepping in something that would leave a stain.
The Noper in the tattered tarpaulin tent just giggled. “Relax, friend. If I’d have meant to roll you, you’d never have known it. Been watching over you. Should be grateful.”
“How do I know you’re not the one who put me here?”
More laughter that showed off, not horrible and yellowing teeth, but starkly white and well-kept dentition. “Friend, does it look to you like I have the resources to bust into Elysium or Nirvana or Shangri-La or wherever you’re from and hijack your overfed ass?” She moved, standing up slowly. Revealing that most of her apparent bulk was insulation. “Naw, friend, you were dropped off by the Karmic Re-Alignment Society. KRAS. They got themselves something of a Robin Hood scheme going on.”
She must have weighed sixty-five kilos, sopping wet. And she sure didn’t have any kind of physical advantage.
“Robin Hood?”
“Yeah. But in this case, it’s steal the rich, make ‘em poor, and see if they don’t live long enough to change their ways. I go by Angel. 'Case you’re wonderin’.”
“I’m Supreme Senator Urien–”
“Oh, I know who you are, Mr Peel. Everyone in Lower Skunge knows who you are.” Another surprising smile. “You’re the asshole who wants to nuke the poor. You goin’ nuke yourself, now, Mr Peel?”
“I’m not poor! I have Quintillions! All I have to do is snap my fingers to the right people and I’m back in charge of your sorry ass.”
“Well, if you want to get to the right people alive…” said Angel. “I strongly recommend you engage in some protective camouflage. People’re gonna notice that suit. That suit says you have money. Hell, there’s some folks here in Skunge who’d skin you just for your buttons.”
He didn’t doubt her. He knew the criminal element was rife in the Poverty Quarter. “Why haven’t you?”
“Because my best interests lie in you seeing how the other half lives. If you’ve been there… you’re not likely to be nasty to them as is still there.”
She lead him on a labyrinthine journey, through the Swap Markets where he traded clothing from the skin up (“Keep the socks, friend. Socks is hard to come by.”) for far more disreputable wear and some face paints (“These’ll change your face until the beard comes in.”) as well as some basic hygiene products(“It’s worth it to brush every day. Trust these teeth.”) and a large assortment of gewgaws that went into a voluminous sack (“They arrest you for having cash, down here.”).
“Why should they arrest you for having money?” he asked over a bowl of something that, while not the fare he was used to, was at least warm and promised to fill his belly. It was definitely not vegan or good for his waistline.
“Evidence of drugs,” said Angel. She ate as if she didn’t expect another chance to. With the bowl right under her mouth and very little time wasted in getting the food inside her. “Any money is proof that you been dealin’ drugs in Lower Skunge. They don’t 'spect you to earn any other way. And if'n you’re pretty enough, it’s evidence of prostitution.”
He remembered campaigning for those laws, in an effort to wipe out the drug trade and prostitution. The two major sins of the Nopers. He hadn’t expected that law to ever hurt himself, and not just because he wasn’t involved in either crimes.
It went like that for months, as his beard grew and the face-paints flaked away.
To get money, one had to be registered for employment. To be registered, one had to pass a written test (Urien hadn’t held a pen since he left elementary, and many of the reading and comprehension tests had words that baffled him) and have obtained previous work for cash (which he could be arrested for holding) as well as passing a physical.
The last part was a sticking point for Urien. They failed him for eating fast food, which was the only food he could legally obtain. Even the work trucks that sent him out for sweaty, back-breaking labor in the fields didn’t pay him in the fresh, healthy, natural food that his party insisted was available to everyone.
“Don’t they see how many corners I’m backed into?” he ranted over the evening fire.
“The word you’re looking for,” said Angel, “is 'we’re’. We’re backed into corners. We’re forced to decide whether to do something illegal and get executed, or to keep legal and starve. Even this fire could get us arrested if we were in the wrong place.”
And that was how he learned that the fire brigade for the Poor Quarter was forcing people who had homes to freeze in the winter. The homes of the Poor Quarter were bleak, concrete cubes that were lucky to have a door. There was no heat and no chance of trying to be warm without lighting a fire. And fires indoors (whether or not there was a door) were an offence punishable by life-term imprisonment for the family, and death for the fire-lighter.
The good news - according to Angel - was that the fire brigade enforced this law by district, and the cold families would huddle together around fires in other districts.
And, once in a great while, the better part of an unmonitored district would go up in flames (the cheap concrete was re-enforced with wood fibre and flammable chemicals) and the fire brigade would insist on stricter laws and more funding.
Urien had been all for handing them whatever they wanted. It had been his opinion that the Nopers were too stupid to know what was good for them. Now he understood what they were up against.
Three months after he woke up in a puddle, Angel lead him to The Wall. The fifty-foot tall barrier between the Poor Quarter and at least the middle class. It was telling that he had been poor long enough to fear the armoured and armed police force.
Angel downed her bag five feet beyond the bright yellow line. “This is as far as I go, friend. I’m pretty much as illegal as you can get while still being a citizen. Clean your face. Announce who you are in a loud, clear voice. Hold your hands high. And… you’re gonna have to leave your sack.”
Urien nodded. Carrying a sack past the yellow line was like carrying a visible bomb anywhere near a public figure. The contents of the sack would at least buy Angel some meals. Maybe even a nearly new pair of socks.
She helped him shave. One last act of kindness from a woman he barely knew. Angel kept herself to herself, and only showed him the ruin his laws had wrought.
It was intense, showing the police force who he was. Getting arrested and processed anyway. Getting interrogated.
Learning that, at least legally, Angel was really a man. And since she was also brown of skin, that meant she was a Dangerous Element… and therefore had to be rounded up and punished for public safety. She must have known this. But she helped him anyway.
And after that, months and months of deprogramming. He learned, in the end, to repeat what was told to him. But he could never un-see what he had seen.
They wouldn’t let him back into politics. The people who counted, the people who paid their taxes, wouldn’t vote for anyone who had 'gone soft’ on the poor and criminal.
All he could really do, was divert his wealth towards helping those poor souls on the other side of The Wall. Which meant funnelling his funds towards bands of fellow bleeding-heart hippie whack-jobs trying their utmost to help the disadvantaged. After the inevitable divorce, of course.
Funds that included a sizeable monthly stipend for the Karmic Re-Alignment Society.
Every little bit helped.
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