The Country from Hell
Onboard the University-bound streetcar, you pull a sweat-sodden piece of paper out of your pocket. You slide it into the ticket puncher, pressing a small silver button to make a series of little holes on the bottom of your ticket. The streetcar lurches to life as you inspect the ticket. The stupid machine barely left a mark on it. Many years ago, Iad bought these streetcars wholesale from East Germany. So much great revolutionary progress is what brought about the invention of the mechanical ticket-punch. You curse to yourself as you punch the ticket again, pulling it out without looking at it and stuffing it back into your pocket. You hang onto a rail to keep from being thrown to the floor as the shitty little streetcar struggles its way down the street.
Sweat is dripping down your neck. Looking around, you see a fat middle-aged woman fanning herself with a newspaper while wearing a bored expression. Next to her there is a pretty girl staring at the floor, a wet gleam shining from her jet-black hair. Every single window is barred shut. You can barely breathe. A general hum of discontent fills the stuffy car. Finally, a thin boy grabs onto two rails and acrobatically swings his legs upward, kicking open a ceiling vent. Iadians are nothing if not freakishly flexible. Your admiration comes out as a laugh in his direction. No one else seems to care, and really it hasn't made any difference.
The streetcar comes to a sudden halt; passengers push each other on and off. You have just continued along your way again when you hear the dreaded words whispered around on all sides: the control!.
Sure enough, an ugly man with dead eyes is soon standing right in your face.
"Ticket, please," he says mechanically, staring absently at your chest. You hand him your battered ticket. He grabs it up greedily because he can see immediately that it isn't perfect. He shakes his head, handing it back to you in a crumpled sweaty ball.
"This is no good. You prick kids. You think you can get twelve rides out of a two-ride ticket."
A stinging drop of sweat falls into your eye.
"I used it twice. If your machines worked, maybe we wouldn't be having this problem."
"If you hadn't chosen to board my streetcar illegally, we wouldn't be having this problem."
"Are you joking? You can see as clearly as everyone else that I only used this ticket twice!"
As for everyone else, they are either staring blankly at you or down at the floor. You have no way to tell from their eyes whether they think you are brave or just stupid. They have learned the art of detached neutrality. The black-haired girl continues her fixed gaze downward.
You unroll the now practically destroyed ticket and try to point out your innocence to the control officer. You know already that there is no point to any of this, that you will lose. Knowing equally well his side of the game, the inspector shakes his head, pointing to random parts of the shredded ticket, saying, "There's a ride you stole. There's another one you ripped off of the government. And here's one you took from me personally."
You silently gasp for breath as the sweat turns to burning oil on your skin.
"Do I look like a rich fucking American to you? I don't have the money to pay your stupid fine. You won't get a single cent from me, you disgusting Informer!"
"Ok, son, I see we'll have to resolve this outside," he says calmly in that gentle Iadian tone which always means bad things to come. As the car stops again, he grabs you roughly by the arm, dragging you onto the street. The last thing you see in the streetcar is the black-haired girl, who glances down at you for just a moment with empty gray eyes.
You find yourself on a wide empty stretch of sidewalk, bound in on both sides by never-ending apartment blocks. You look wearily at the Control.
"Two hundred thousand, kid."
"Not on your fucking life."
"I'm afraid I will lose my patience soon."
"Is that so?"
Your eyes lock in a stare as the sun beats down, hotter and hotter. In your peripheral vision you see a taxi coming slowly up the street. He must smell the trouble. You barely have to hail the driver before he is parked at the curb.
"I just need to get a hundred meters down the road!" you shout to the cabby.
"Will you make it worth my while? I'd be breaking the law."
The Control Pig sidles up to the window, smiling disarmingly at the cabby.
"A hundred thousand," the punk behind the wheel says to you with a sneer.
"Not on your fucking life!"
But as you look back at the Control Officer, he seems almost to be licking his chops, anticipating the taste of your blood.
What should you do?
Sweat is dripping down your neck. Looking around, you see a fat middle-aged woman fanning herself with a newspaper while wearing a bored expression. Next to her there is a pretty girl staring at the floor, a wet gleam shining from her jet-black hair. Every single window is barred shut. You can barely breathe. A general hum of discontent fills the stuffy car. Finally, a thin boy grabs onto two rails and acrobatically swings his legs upward, kicking open a ceiling vent. Iadians are nothing if not freakishly flexible. Your admiration comes out as a laugh in his direction. No one else seems to care, and really it hasn't made any difference.
The streetcar comes to a sudden halt; passengers push each other on and off. You have just continued along your way again when you hear the dreaded words whispered around on all sides: the control!.
Sure enough, an ugly man with dead eyes is soon standing right in your face.
"Ticket, please," he says mechanically, staring absently at your chest. You hand him your battered ticket. He grabs it up greedily because he can see immediately that it isn't perfect. He shakes his head, handing it back to you in a crumpled sweaty ball.
"This is no good. You prick kids. You think you can get twelve rides out of a two-ride ticket."
A stinging drop of sweat falls into your eye.
"I used it twice. If your machines worked, maybe we wouldn't be having this problem."
"If you hadn't chosen to board my streetcar illegally, we wouldn't be having this problem."
"Are you joking? You can see as clearly as everyone else that I only used this ticket twice!"
As for everyone else, they are either staring blankly at you or down at the floor. You have no way to tell from their eyes whether they think you are brave or just stupid. They have learned the art of detached neutrality. The black-haired girl continues her fixed gaze downward.
You unroll the now practically destroyed ticket and try to point out your innocence to the control officer. You know already that there is no point to any of this, that you will lose. Knowing equally well his side of the game, the inspector shakes his head, pointing to random parts of the shredded ticket, saying, "There's a ride you stole. There's another one you ripped off of the government. And here's one you took from me personally."
You silently gasp for breath as the sweat turns to burning oil on your skin.
"Do I look like a rich fucking American to you? I don't have the money to pay your stupid fine. You won't get a single cent from me, you disgusting Informer!"
"Ok, son, I see we'll have to resolve this outside," he says calmly in that gentle Iadian tone which always means bad things to come. As the car stops again, he grabs you roughly by the arm, dragging you onto the street. The last thing you see in the streetcar is the black-haired girl, who glances down at you for just a moment with empty gray eyes.
You find yourself on a wide empty stretch of sidewalk, bound in on both sides by never-ending apartment blocks. You look wearily at the Control.
"Two hundred thousand, kid."
"Not on your fucking life."
"I'm afraid I will lose my patience soon."
"Is that so?"
Your eyes lock in a stare as the sun beats down, hotter and hotter. In your peripheral vision you see a taxi coming slowly up the street. He must smell the trouble. You barely have to hail the driver before he is parked at the curb.
"I just need to get a hundred meters down the road!" you shout to the cabby.
"Will you make it worth my while? I'd be breaking the law."
The Control Pig sidles up to the window, smiling disarmingly at the cabby.
"A hundred thousand," the punk behind the wheel says to you with a sneer.
"Not on your fucking life!"
But as you look back at the Control Officer, he seems almost to be licking his chops, anticipating the taste of your blood.
What should you do?