Black Catz

Chapter Nineteen - "Rich Kids Make Graves"

The sergeant responded for his prisoners—hopefully they are temporary (the prisoners...being us):

"On, with you!" the sergeant flicked, shouting and snapping at the foot-vendor, shooing the poor battered man off—these vendors, men and women, out on the street, show their most battered benevolence, out of all of us, out of all the rest of us, in their imprisoned-selling minds.

After the "salesman" went on his way, and after he took his things, a push from behind shoved me—along with my mother and Úshka—into the building.

The doors are swinging. They are made of glass. And their border, like in the mansion from the other side, is made of gold, and it shines with the sundown.

The windows of the buildings around us shoot reflections our way, making some bounce back into our direct eyesight.

Imagine us as a cattle-line. Because that is what we are at the present time...at least that is what I feel like...being shepherded in and all, like a sheep needing to obey its keeper.

I, once again, like other times, am following, simply following. I'm in a line, once again. Maybe my line of death.

Into the swinging door my mother goes, after the sergeant. Then follows Úshka, sliding right into the empty slot that flung her way after the one that scooped-up my mother. I stood there, near two sings, and then slit into the third empty spot. I needed a few seconds to at least try to enjoy being "home".

A splash of dark brown tainted the floors below us, forming a pattern as it scattered throughout the lobby area.

The main desk, the one up front holding the main secretaries, those on the phone, held one giant sign, its letters as flashy as the men around them: Party West Corp., read the title of the holder of all the souls scattering around, swinging in, turn after turn, chattering sale after sale for nothing in particular, for no true passion; maybe some of these folks also got something taken from them and are then forced to work in here; maybe they had their own Moritz and grandmother held and taken at ransom of the life.

"Always taking forever, eh?" asked the sergeant, the first to greet me on the other side of the doors. "Let's do try and keep, eh?"

"Um...right," I answer, really wanting to give him the finger.

****************

"Come on, now," the sergeant then pushes on us, halting us to the elevators. About twenty, there is—twenty of them flickering lights, saying "go here, then there, then down, then up, then go fuck yourself."

They obviously don't literally say those things, but don't it feel that way?

The paintings on the wall could have probably saved my grandmother and Moritz. But nobody here cares. The walls need it more, in their eyes. The fashion means more. The sentiment is stronger when living. Keep it where it is, the walls whisper.

Tell me: what would you do when walls talk?

Because these walls, them and their splashing colors that are made by rich kids lucky enough to splash colors for a living with no true meaning or message—unlike the real deals back in the day—do, underlying-ly, say, "fuck it all"; one painting, in fact, actually says that in splashes...

Fuck...it...all.

It must be lucky to be rich in rich.

"Come on," says my mother, realizing I was lost in the disgust of the riches in the room—she probably wasn't aware of that thought in my head, but she was aware of something in my head, so "come on" she said, before the sergeant would have to say it again; him and his gold tooth; him and his evil gold tooth.

So we got into the elevators.

The lights flashed into our eyes like beams from another planet interrupting our brain-in-thought (for those that still have any).

"She's a lovely lady," the sergeant uttered.

Who is, I thought.

"Although she's been queen, she doesn't act like one."

Ah—that is who he must be talking about: the preciously, selected Queen.

You see: in my side of the wall, you get everything you can ask for—except free money—as long as you don't ask for the ruler. Then, if you did ask for the ruler, you would get one straight through the head.

It's rather ridiculous: candy, foods, water, entertainment, it is all at your disposal (with a West ID), yet asking who rules over your life, a simple question like that, is not at your disposal.

But when you look at how bat-shit crazy things are on the other side, well, what can you really complain about?

The people that live on my side don't know though. They don't know how bad things are on that side unless they cross. But what would make someone want to cross when they have it all here?

****************

The only reason I ever crossed was because I had a family member who thought the other side wasn't that bad as to not help a family member in need. That family member, of course, is now being transported here in a body bag.

And now I'm going to meet the person that allows all this to happen; the person that allows a trade of people, for simple, stupid comforts that are paid with body bags.

Since 2020, which was almost fifty years ago, it's been this way.

Which goes to show you: give a person everything they want, and they'll never bother you a day in your life.

It also shows another thing: people are simple to please; they don't want a lot; give them sweets, action movies, and health care, and they'll shut up—oh...and free drugs; that's very important...free drugs.

Stupid, drugged-up people have less to question, less to learn—or less to want to learn because of their "medicated" state.

And that's what we all are, those on my side: stupid, drugged-up, people.

Maybe the Catz knew that.

Maybe the whole other side knows that: that it's easier to just fight for each other, to live in that danger, than to live in certain death—as we do, on my side.

"I tell you, she doesn't talk much, but when she does, oh, she's like a walking encyclopedia. Yesterday, she told me who Lady RihRih was dating," then divulged the sergeant, revealing what we live for...

...gossip.

"Oh, y'all might want to smile," also explains the sergeant, pointing at another pointless blinking light, but this one was coming from the elevator Hutton's.

"We're on Tower Live," he said.

Tower Live is one of the million live shows always running on this side of the Wall.

There's a live show for everything, and everyone. It's an easy way for Her to spy on you without having to spy on you.

There's Tower Live for homes.

There's Tower Live for streets.

There's even one for toddlers...named Cribz.

Live TV is the "new news".

That was actually a catch phrase coined by our last, last, last ruler. It's in the books.

Henry Sixtieth-Eight Daughters—"Live is news," it said, ahoy that ruler and his coined "coin".

"Remember, yo, dude," to begin with, reminded the sergeant about the welcoming message that we should use when addressing the Queen.

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