236. The corruption of Alexandra

The corruption of Alexandra started at the age of six when her brother dared her to take candy from a baby. Soon she was spiking the home-made lemonade she sold to church pensioners on Sunday and kicking kids for no particular reason. She was dropping f-bombs on unsuspecting passers-by and nicking money from her little sister’s piggybank.

Had she been older than six, she would have been called a liar, a fraudster, a bully, a cunt. Now her parents just branded her a ‘difficult child’ and sent her into therapy.

“That’s the fun of being corrupted at my age,” Alexandra told her shrink on the living room sofa, while in the kitchen the family dog started licking the translucent liquid in its water tray.

“I could get away with murder.”

 

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170. Your vote will make a difference

Your vote will make a difference touted the huge Ministry of Information billboards that lit up the metropolis. Fester Jiggins did not believe the claim. Like 43 percent of the population he hadn’t bothered to vote last time as, to his mind, all politicians were bottom-feeding no-good schemers.

Yet for some reason this year’s propaganda to get the vote out resonated with him. Perhaps it was the hipster way the slogans swirled around the voting booth in the funny yet sweet infomercials. Perhaps it were the more gorgeous than ever holograms of barely-clad ladies that walked up to you on Second Street to convince you to exercise your democratic right. Or the free coupons for Sushi World you’d get in exchange for your proof of voting.

But Fester mostly was swept away by the positivism that had engulfed the country since the Ministry of Information had kicked the voting campaign into high gear. Whether gulping down beer in a seedy café or traversing a zebra crossing in the financial heart, all people were talking about was how – despite some obvious flaws – amazing this country was. And could be if every citizen just went out and elected the most competent candidate they could.

In the end  hope for a bright future swept the country to the tune of a 95 percent turn-out on election day. Fester too had walked the 500 yards to his polling station before devoured some tasty chirashi at Sushi World. His candidate in the end was not victorious, but that was irrelevant. The system worked. That was the important thing.

“Even better than we thought it would”, the Minister of Information told the president – now in his sixth term – up North, as both of them glibly oversaw the burning stack of never to be counted ballots.

 

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68. The city’s veins were congested

The city’s veins were congested, clotted by corruption that ran all the way from the crime-riddled suburbs to the gilded doors of city hall. In the old days there were still some good cops to keep the festering disease at bay but now they too had given into greed and complacency.

Johnny had never known it any other way. He’d grown up in a rough neighbourhood, where each Saturday gangsters made the rounds of the local storekeepers to collect half of the takings. And half of that take went towards bribing the police. Johnny’s father never said a thing when the hoodlums rummaged through the till. Maybe that’s why he died a bitter man, aged 44. Felled by stroke. On a Saturday.

Johnny, barely 15 at the time, took over the store. He too kept his mouth shut when the gangsters demanded their cut. But at the end of every month he set aside a bit of money. Just enough so he could buy a gun by the time he turned 18.

The city’s veins might be congested, but Johnny intended to blow them open. One gangster at a time.

 

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