THE CONSUMMATION
Not the place to be
We do not find ourselves at Headquarters. I leave you to draw your own conclusions. Down at Bootstrapthreeeighths, they are working… feverishly. The maxim is: “Work. Work. Work.” The promised expectation: ‘When all is all as it should be, we will return. Once more, Top Dog will bark. It will all be ours. What was stolen – denied us – ours.’ And so, they work. Feverishly. Work. Work. Work.
Read the written poem
Not the place to be.
Down at Bootstrapthreeeighths, they are working feverishly.
The maxim is: “Work. Work. Work.”
The promised expectation: ‘When all is all as it should be, we will return. We will, again, be Top Dog. It will all be ours. What was stolen from us – denied – will be reclaimed.’
And so, they work. Feverishly. Work, work, work.
Files are moved around. Copied and pasted. Backed up to countless hard drives. Nothing is lost. Backs are backed. Covered. Against claims and counterclaims. Nothing is left to chance. Chance would have nothing left… to chance.
In a small corner, the Hunched Man, bunched over, typing furiously, checking, re-checking, editing, rewriting, checking again and again. Saving Copy. Copying, Saving and Pasting. Posting and Deleting. Rewording. Reworking… typing furiously, checking, re-checking, editing, rewriting, checking again and again. Saving Copy. Copying and Pasting. Posting and Deleting. Rewording. Reworking…
And failing to notice to his right the Femme Fatale… her nails polished, her face aglow, her teeth gleaming, her skin glistening. She buffs her nails, looking across in hope of catching a sideways glance. But there is no glance. No glimpse of hope… No hope in the hopelessness… her nails polished, her face aglow, her teeth gleaming, her skin glistening. She continues to continue.
A bell rings. All look up. Expectantly. Words are spoken: ‘Today’s Break is cancelled. To increase productivity. To further the cause. To hasten the consummation.’ The Hunched Man barely skips a beat. The Femme Fatale buffs on regardless. A thousand, thousand cyphers ply their trade. This is their ‘metier’. Working is all.
Figures appear on a large screen: productivity is increased 5.8 percent.
Hallelucifah!
In the centre of the area, a large man keels, collapses.
The floor is tidied. The body is removed, reconstituted.
A voice says, “Continue. As before. Productivity is up.”
The maxim is “Work. Work. Work.”
Files are moved around. Copied and pasted. Backed up to countless hard drives. Nothing is lost. Backs are backed. Covered. Against claims and counterclaims. Nothing is left to chance. Chance would have nothing left… to chance.
The maxim is: “Work. Work. Work.”
Down at Bootstrapthreeeighths, they are working feverishly.