The Speaker

Joe sucked in air through his mouth then let out a coughing exhale. He covered his mouth too late, despite the fact that he was alone in his truck. Through his windshield, he saw the wide, rugged, filthy, death-filled area between the trenches. No man's land.

It was World War III and trench warfare was back and in a big way. This time, it was mostly due to laziness, but neither side would admit that. You've got the English or the French or something on one side and the French or the Swedish or something similar on the other side. Joe couldn't remember what they were at war about but he knew that he supported the French. Or the Swedish.

Trenches these days were pretty fun; Joe knew for a fact that one side had a pool table and heated bathroom floors. Maybe I should've joined the military, Joe mused. I'm too fat for combat, but maybe they'd need numbers so bad that I'd squeeze in. Although I'm not French or Swedish or English so that would be a problem.

Joe wasn't a soldier. Joe was a repairman. His specialty was in televisions, although he wasn't really a specialist in anything. He was a jack of all trades repairman, as long as those trades were consumer electronics. And he had a doozy of a repair on his hands today.

Both sides knew it as "The Speaker", and that's what it was: a titanic, colossal, double-sided speaker, one side facing each trench. No one knew who put it up; one day it wasn't there, the next day it was, like an alien monolith.

As Joe had heard, much of the fighting post-Speaker was over which radio station to put on. One side wanted the hottest pop hits while the other wanted to unwind with some classic rock. There was a detente for a day where holiday music was accepted by both sides, but this ended when Guns N Roses began blaring first thing on December 26th. Eventually, the two warring armies settled on public radio, finding the dulcet tones of the various hosts soothing. The shooting stopped as the soldiers learned about new books that were coming out soon.

Then The Speaker broke, and resentment began to simmer once more. Both sides' spies were blamed; the spies had previously been discovered to be spies, though both were so charming that they were incorporated into the other's ranks. Though both spies pleaded that they knew nothing of the speaker breaking, they were executed in front of each trench. The message was clear: spying was fine, but fucking with The Speaker was not.

This brought us back to Joe, sitting in his truck, an old revolver in the passenger seat. What am I gonna do with this thing? he wondered, picking the gun up and examining it. Joe came from a neutral country in the conflict, his unbiased presence being something both armies agreed upon after days of progress-less fighting.

Joe detested war, not because of any moral objections, but because it seemed like a lot of work. Exercise was abhorrent to him; someone speed-walking past him on the street was something he interpreted as an insult and showing off. He had bad eyesight and flat feet and a head so big that an enemy sniper would tear up with joy seeing it in his scope.

Joe pushed his glasses up and started speaking to himself.

"In and out. There's a ceasefire. They don't want to shoot you. They just want the speaker fixed. They don't want to shoot you. They just want the speaker fixed."

This became Joe's mantra as he shakily opened the truck door, still holding the pistol in his hand. Eyeing the gun with each movement, he pointed it at the ground so as to avoid any accidental firing. Joe moved around to the truck bed and placed the gun in his right hand. He reached over the side of the bed and grabbed his toolbox. Gun in one hand and toolbox in the other, he took a deep breath, let it out, and began walking towards The Speaker.

Though each step was slow, each heartbeat was quick and pounding. Sweat melted down his brow, and he could taste it and feel it sting his eyes. His tiny, circular glasses fogged up, either from perspiration or precipitation. The sweat wasn't confined to his head; the running water loosened his grip of the pistol and toolbox. He didn't want to squeeze either, careful not to accidentally pull the trigger.