The Second Wager

By Ian S. McCrae

"The period of greatest gain in knowledge and experience is the most difficult period in one's life" - Dalai Lama

Sadly, many must undergo great pain in order to learn thoroughly the lessons that have the most beneficial impact on their lives, as well as the longest lasting. Rassimus Flur is no exception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483508894

Book preview

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1

The world breaks everyone, but those that will not break, it kills. Apt words from a long forgotten poet, although not entirely applicable to Rassimus Flur. In no way an indomitable spirit, yet hardly prone to credulity, Mr. Flur recognized the world for what it was. A cold, unforgiving place, better suited for deceit and chaos than anything resembling love and compassion. And while he certainly did not want to contribute to such an atmosphere, he had no desire to be swallowed up by it either. He therefore lived his life accordingly. He worked diligently at his job, but never arrived early or stayed late. He was fastidious in paying his taxes, but never gave to charity. He was a lukewarm, tepid man, scrupulously watching his life’s hourglass ebb away into oblivion. Each grain of sand representing a wasted opportunity. A moment that could have been, but wasn’t. His life was one that was never truly lived.

And now the reader will see firsthand a typical day in the life of Mr. Flur, and you will no doubt agree that the above description is in no way hyperbole. Mr. Flur awoke promptly at 8:17 every morning. He had no use for an alarm clock, as his body had become accustomed to waking up every morning at this same time. An odd time, to be sure, but one that had evolved from habit more than necessity. Twenty two minutes were spent grooming and dressing. Twelve minutes were used to eat breakfast, typically coffee and toast. It was an eight minute walk to the bank, leaving an ample sixty seconds to walk up the steps and arrive in his office at precisely 9:00. These details should not give the false impression that Mr. Flur was in any way a pedant. Far from it. Whenever he was able to skirt around the rules somehow, he would gladly take the opportunity. The reason for his punctuality was simply a matter of practicality. To arrive at work early would serve no purpose, other than having to wake earlier than was his custom. To arrive late would, again, be in no way beneficial, as he would only receive a reprimand, or worse, from his superior.

His apartment was free of clutter, although dust had made itself a permanent resident there. He had a varied wardrobe, as he was not completely without imagination. He loathed waste and redundancy, and therefore had one bed to sleep in, one table to eat on, and one chair to sit in while eating. When not eating, he might occasionally move the chair to another location besides next to the table, but these instances were rare, as he found such change unnecessary, and thus distasteful. Again, to conclude from these facts that Mr. Flur was banal would be erroneous. His home was adorned with various works of art, paintings, small sculptures, etc. One of his exterior walls had been replaced with a solid pane of glass some time ago. This afforded him the opportunity to look upon the city and its metropolitan beauty. On either side of the window were bookshelves that extended to the ceiling, of which every bit of space was taken. While not precocious, he perhaps possessed more acumen than the common man, which rarely helped diminish his caustic nature. He quite enjoyed reading of ancient history, various philosophers, and stories told by poets long gone from this world.

While walking to work, he spoke to no one. He rarely even looked up. Not that he had to, as he had walked this route countless times before, and could probably get there without incident even if blindfolded. He walked briskly, but never ran. Just enough to ensure he would arrive on time. He, of course, always arrived on time. He would enter the bank, while holding the door for anyone behind him if necessary, give a courteous greeting to the receptionist at the front desk, smile to any of his coworkers he may pass in the hall, and finally arrive at his office.

A sigh would escape his lips once the door had shut. Not from anxiety as a result of human interaction, as he had no social phobias, and not from any sort of trepidation about beginning the work day, as he had no aversion to his job. The sigh was, in truth, from an unknown source. It baffled Mr. Flur, since he himself had no idea why, as soon as his office door shut, an inevitable sigh would follow. It was as constant as his internal alarm at 8:17, yet, for the moment, seemed to have no purpose. But other than a fleeting curiosity, this mystery had no hold on him. How often is this so in our own lives? We scrupulously dissect the minutiae in our life, money, work, food, and so on. But when it comes to the things that should absolutely be in the forefront of our thoughts, we utterly dismiss them! Women become trapped in loveless marriages, and therefore bear children so that their efforts can be solely focused on them. Men hide behind a wall of neanderthal masculinity to bury their emotional pain. Never once do we consider addressing these things. And why would we, when we are so busy contemplating the past or planning the future, but never thinking about the now, the present? We flee from it, as if it was diseased. We cast it off as we would a leprous member. It is truly as the poet once wrote, ‘We are so unwise that we wander about in times that do not belong to us, and do not think of the only one that does.’ Although penned so very long ago, it seemed that nothing had changed. However, we have strayed far enough from our original path, and should now return.

Mr. Flur’s official title was Regional Sub-Director of Fiduciary Division III. This, like all secular titles, was merely an overly worded, empty way of bloating the hubris. Mr. Flur cared little for titles, though. His job granted him the solitude he desired, while also allowing him to live a moderately comfortable life. Mr. Flur’s office was as devoid of clutter as his apartment, with the only significant difference being the lack of artwork, as it seemed heterogeneous here, as well as the absence of dust, simply because of the cleaners that came in every night. His desk had several stacks of papers, but none of them superfluous. He had one pen, and one pencil, with several reserves in his top drawer. An abacus occupied the bottom left corner of his desk. This last item was particularly bothersome to Mr. Flur. It had been a gift from his direct supervisor when he had received this post, and that was the sole reason it remained on display. In a practical sense, it was utterly useless. Such an archaic piece of equipment had long since been replaced by more efficient means of tabulation. Occasionally, he did use it as a paperweight. Other than those rare instances, though, it sat there, a deplorable waste of what could have been valuable desk space.

Mr. Flur always began his work day in the same fashion. Performing a mental checklist, he made sure he had all pertinent documents he would need that day, as well as all supplies necessary. The simple fact was that once he had made it safely to his office, he absolutely despised leaving. Although he had no objection to holding the door open for those behind him, or nodding to the receptionist, or even smiling to his co workers, to actually associate or engage them in conversation was an idea that sickened him. True, at first glance they may seem pleasant enough, but, as with all creatures, they were no more than beasts whose mind operated more on instinct and the desire for self preservation and instant gratification than anything else. While they deluded themselves into believing they were higher moral beings, as soon as the sun set, they undoubtedly set to engaging in their debasing, crepuscular activities, which likely included all manner of profligacy. Wasting exorbitant amounts of money on games of chance. Men drooling over women, desperately hoping for sexual gratification. Ingesting all manner of spirits and hallucinogens, trying in vain to forget their miserable waste of a life. Indeed, these were beings much worse than described before. They lived in neither past, present nor future. Slowly listing through life, in a sort of mental purgatory, as it were.

It wasn’t that he felt superior in any way, or of a higher moral caliber. He, too, enjoyed the occasional companionship of a woman. Often on the weekend he would imbibe a libation or two. He was no better than anyone. It was the hypocrisy he found so abhorrent. The misguided belief that they were something they most certainly were not. The absurd fantasy that they could be such a great, lofty thing, when nothing was further from the truth! And so, it was for this reason he avoided any prolonged contact with, not just his workmates, but people in general. People would cut your throat in an instant if they felt they could gain something by doing it. Indeed, many did just that, while others chose to sink the blade in a bit more surreptitiously. All the while, though, they would swear by their own piety, and it made him absolutely sick!

After the mental checklist was complete, the actual work began. A Regional Sub-Director for any one of the twelve Fiduciary Divisions was responsible for the smooth operation of all monetary funds flowing either in or out. Not a record keeper by any means, as there were a copious amount of petty underlings that could do that. Mr. Flur was the man that made sure nothing, absolutely not one thing, slipped through the cracks. This included any loans that may have been defaulted on. As he thumbed through his stack of papers, his lips began to twist. It seemed a local business owner had skipped three of his scheduled payments. Personally, he couldn’t comprehend why one payment was allowed to be tardy. But the Divisions, in their wisdom and mercy, had seen fit to grant leniency in this matter. Even they had their limits, though. Standard Division policy after three missed payments was total seizure of all assets. This may include the business and its inventory, and possibly even the home and possessions of the business owner, depending on the size of the loan and the outstanding balance on it. This particular case fell into the aforementioned category.

As Regional Sub-Director, it was Mr. Flur’s responsibility to oversee the seizure of assets, and ensure that everything was carried out in an orderly fashion. This was what had prompted his snarl. He hated these days with a passion. It was not that he had any compunction whatsoever about removing people from their homes. They had taken money, and they had not given it back. Indeed, it was tantamount to criminal! It was the inevitable whining and excuses he had to endure that made it so very insufferable. Everyone had a story, and everyone had a reason for doing what they did, and everyone, down to the last, would find some way to pay the money back. They could be living in a box out on the mud infested streets, dressed in tatters, and still, they would weave before you some fanciful, grandiloquent scheme that they had set into motion which would unquestionably ensure you your money with interest! It was enough to make him gag.

And so it would be on this frigid day (although that description seems unnecessary, as all days were frigid) he would once again have to endure yet another pathetic tale, a tragedy of epic proportions, all while feigning to care. The inconvenience of it all was almost unbearable. However, there was little point in delaying. The sooner he finished what had to be done, the sooner he would be back in his warm, comfortable office. He made sure he had all of his paperwork in order, placed it neatly into his briefcase, put his overcoat back on, and was out the door. He didn’t bother with any of the social niceties he had felt obligated to offer when he came. Was a second friendly nod to the receptionist going to make her feel that much better about her miserable life? Although Mr. Flur had never felt it necessary to own an automobile, they were convenient when travelling substantial distances in sub-zero temperatures. Thankfully, he was provided with a company vehicle for occasions such as this, and he was truly grateful for it. The car pulled up to the sidewalk almost the instant he reached it. In no time at all he was back in a temperate climate, on his way to do his job.

He spent the trip in pensive silence. The one bright spot about these excursions was the commute there and back. He did not have to drive the vehicle, so he was completely free from any sort of distractions or demand on his mental faculties. Such instances were rare indeed, so he usually took the moment to bathe in total equanimity. This may be the penultimate display of truly living in the present. He did not analyze past mistakes or triumphs. He did not fret over the upcoming task. He simply enjoyed the moment. He speculated that this might be the secret to true contentment, something that had eluded him and many others. To be sure, he certainly wasn’t depressed or unhappy with his life, but happy? Content? Perhaps these were things so foreign to people that they wouldn’t recognize them even if they had achieved them. Or it could be that no such thing existed, the equivalent of the fabled fountain of youth. Indeed, what man could claim to be truly content with his life? Show me that man and I will show you a liar, Mr. Flur thought to himself. It seemed far more likely to him that, instead of a perpetual feeling of bliss, it merely came in sustained intervals, much like this one. The moment would be enjoyed, again, like this very occasion, and then it would end. Life would again take on its oppressive, dreary tone until, once again, another propitious moment would arise. That being the case, Mr. Flur savored every second of the time he had now. But time moves in one direction, and any one moment can only last for so long. Thus, as the car began to slow to a halt, he knew that his peace was at an end, for now, that is.

By the time he arrived at his destination, the Enforcers were already at work, hastily and efficiently removing things from the house. He glanced quickly at his file to learn the man’s name. Jodal Lemal. His was a fairly common tale ; Mr. Lemal undoubtedly dreamed of achieving financial freedom by building a successful business. But like all endeavors of that magnitude, it required money, a lot of it. And as any sensible person would do, he turned to a trusted financial institution to acquire these necessary funds. He had agreed to a standard five year loan, three of which had passed without incident. There was no indication as to why he had defaulted now, and Mr. Flur cared very little as to the reasons why. The fact was that he had defaulted, and there were consequences for such negligence. The file also said that he was a father of two. What a reprehensible, selfish man this was, to behave in such an irresponsible way! To gamble on ones own future is one thing. But to place the well being of your family solely in the hands of a market that is fickle at its best,was inexcusable. Taking one last look at the file, he returned it to it’s proper spot in his briefcase and exited the vehicle.

Mr. Lemal was frantically yet passively attempting to interfere with the Enforcers’ efforts. At first trying to simply stand in their way, then pleading with them, appealing to their compassion, and eventually threatening to summon a patrol officer if they did not cease. All of these attempts, however, were in vain, and the eviction continued. He at once spotted Mr. Flur walking up the steps to the house, recognized him as a man of authority, and wasted no time in shifting his efforts to the newcomer on the scene.

Please sir, please, I beg you. Make them stop.

Mr. Flur did his best imitation of a sympathetic physiognomy. Good morning Mr. Lemal. Allow me to offer my condolences for this tragic yet necessary business. He placed his briefcase down on the ground and removed the pertinent file. If you would please direct your attention to the form I have here, it states clearly that after a grace period of no more than three months, seizure of assets equal to the balance of the loan occurs. As you are no doubt aware, sir, you are in your fourth month of non payment.

The man’s face took on an almost hopeful look. But I have the money, I have it all and more! replied Mr. Lemal. I was simply waiting on several sales to process, and now they have. I can pay you right here and now, he said, while reaching for his billfold with trembling hands.

Unfortunately, Mr. Lemal, that would be a matter to take up with the collection agency. Contact them at your earliest convenience and we can get this entire sordid affair straightened out. In truth, Mr. Flur had the power to grant the man’s request, but it would require an enormous amount of paperwork, and it was freezing! Besides, the man had had three whole months to do this. Perhaps now he would learn to curtail his procrastination.

But what do I do until then? Where will I go? How will my family get by in the months it takes to process my request?

Do you have any other family? Perhaps someone that would be willing to house you until that time?

No. We have no one, replied the man, wide eyed and on the brink of hysteria.

Mr. Flur paused a moment, to give the illusion he was in turmoil over what to do. After sufficient time had passed, he gave his answer. I’m sorry Mr. Lemal. There’s simply nothing I’m able to do. He turned around and began walking back to his vehicle. Already his extremities were beginning to go numb, and he once again longed for warmth and comfort. He hadn’t made it two steps, however, before he stopped dead in his tracks. An invisible force had detained him. He soon discovered that the force impeding him was Mr. Lemal’s hand, firmly affixed to his shoulder. He turned back to face him. A wild, desperate look had crept onto the other man’s face.

Please sir, please. Do not do this thing. I appeal to your compassion. Do not rip my children out of their home and leave them stranded with nothing. Do not just eject them into the cold. I beg you sir, please!

Slowly, Mr. Flur’s eyes looked down to the hand on his shoulder. Then, just as slowly, they returned their gaze upon Mr. Lemal. Any facade of mercy or empathy had now vanished and only a twisted look of disgust remained. Allow me to tell you about the cold, sir. The chill of this world is ubiquitous, indeed, and only those with the guile and perspicacity to get out from underneath its crushing grip are able to survive. You have failed, sir. You have failed yourself, and you have failed your family. You have failed to protect them from the icy winds that beleaguer this cruel world. Do not paint me as the villain, sir. I have a job to do, and I am doing it. Your job was to see to the welfare of your family. If they are to suffer, then the blame rests solely on your drooped shoulders. His voice had built into a crescendo, eventually reaching a frantic yell. He took a moment to compose himself, and his voice returned to its low, menacing tone. Now, please remove your hand from my person, or it will be removed by force.

The look of desperation slowly faded from his face, eventually replaced only by despair. The world had broken Mr. Lemal, and he silently resigned himself to that fact. Mr. Flur resumed his walk to the vehicle, hastily threw his briefcase in, and slammed the door shut behind him. Company policy required him to oversee the eviction until it was complete, but there was no specificity as to where he oversaw it from. And so he spent the next three hours sitting comfortably in his warm car, watching as the lives of a father and his children were torn asunder. It did not bother him really. It was what it was. Would he rather it was him out there, possessions being ripped away from him? Hardly!

It should be noted that, although Mr. Flur’s attitude may seem deplorable to the reader, it was not the most vile thing about this scenario. What likely was the most abject facet of the entire drama, was that he did not mind that he did not care. He saw in himself no flaw, no weakness. If anything, this was a strength in his eyes. Indeed, a virtue. He was not shackled by fairy tale notions of love and justice. Love. The thought made him chuckle, for no such thing existed in this world. Not the love that people read about in romance novels or hero’s sagas. No, this world was propelled on the antithesis of love. Not hate, per say, or malevolence. But greed, certainly, and selfishness, and power, along with the lustful desire to attain it. This was what built empires, crowned kings and won wars. Every fool that believed in love would end up exactly like poor Jodal Lemal.

As soon as the eviction was complete, Mr. Flur wasted no time in hurrying back to the bank. Enough time had already been wasted this day. He once again skipped the pleasantries with others and simply walked straight to his office. He sat down in his chair and stewed. He was tired. He hadn’t slept well the previous night. Or the night before that. Truth be told, he couldn’t remember the last time he had had a peaceful nights rest. The whole to-do of today’s events had done little to help his anxious state. And then there was that cursed abacus! Without thought he grabbed the archaic implement and threw it into the bottom drawer of his desk. He sat and let things settle. Oddly enough, that had seemed to make him feel quite better. A smile came to his mouth. It’s the little things, he thought to himself.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Although mentally disrupted, he was still able to meet his assigned work quota. This pleased him greatly. Even when odds were not in his favor, he thought, he could still soldier on. The smile he had had previously returned to his face. His mood had improved considerably, so that when making his exit, he turned to the receptionist and said, Have a pleasant evening. Yes, although adversity had been thrown his way, he had endured and overcome. The world had not yet broken Rassimus Flur.

It was already dark by the time he began his walk home. It seemed tonight was much colder than the ones prior. Bright lights along the sidewalk guided his way. Since he was feeling a bit chipper, he decided to take a detour into the local park. His overcoat was heavy and kept him plenty warm. He had something he wanted to see that he hadn’t in quite a while. It was rare he visited the park, too many people for his taste. But he was not completely without an aesthetic eye, and botany held a particular interest with him. So it was on this frosty night that he set to exploring for one of his favorite species of fauna. The landscape and layout had changed significantly since last he was here, although that was likely several years ago. Sight was not a problem, since the same lights that were stationed along the sidewalk were peppered throughout the park. His object of fancy wouldn’t be too hard to spot, as nothing else would be in bloom in such harsh temperatures.

Finally, after not very long in searching, he found it, nestled at the edge of a stream under an old wooden bridge. The scientific name for it was some ridiculous, long winded phrase from a dead language that made the people that did know it feel smarter. He much preferred its common name, Eternal Fire. It’s bright red stalk protruded from the ground to approximately his waist. One need not even bend down to smell it, its sweet fragrance was so potent. The real gem, though, was it’s bloom. Like an ornate crown that donned the head of royalty, the flower’s petals possessed such bedazzling colors, with an absolutely magnificent array of textures, Mr. Flurs breath escaped him every time he gazed upon it. At the center, a yellow that was as bright as a heavenly body, which, as it continued outward, became a darker shade until, at the midway point, it had become a deep orange. Without warning, the orange quickly became red, an intense scarlet, almost reminiscent of blood, and it remained this hue for the rest of the petals length. Although the flower was certainly beautiful to the eye, that was not its sole appeal to Mr. Flur. This plant could sustain even the harshest of conditions, hence its blooming in such frigid temperatures. Nothing could stop it, no adversity was too great. That is what made it truly unique. He somewhat likened it to himself, in a small, humble way.

The flowers beauty was unmatched, in the opinion of Mr. Flur, that is, and in the opinion of many others. He stood and stared at it for a long time, locked in a trance. It was as if the flower was Medusa, and he was its prey. Only a noise from behind him was able to break its hold. A voice was saying something to him. He started as he hadn’t heard anyone walk up to him. Turning, he saw a man dressed in rags. His hair, both on the top of his head and on his face, was completely disheveled. Mr. Flur could not believe the man had approached unnoticed, for his stench surely preceded him wherever he went. In less than five seconds, he had judged this man, and found him sorely wanting. Indeed, it was once wisely said, the apparel oft proclaims the man. The unkempt figure obsequiously looked up at him and produced a jar that had been buried underneath his rags.

A few spare coins to help your fellow man in need? he pleaded.

It was too late in the day for Mr. Flur to worry about false sympathy, but he also had no reason to add to the man’s suffering. I have no money with me. Go away.

The beggar persisted. Please sir, even a morsel of bread, perhaps left over from your midday meal. Truly, I live off the kindness of strangers such as yourself.

Ha! Mr. Flur barked. It is more likely that you live off of spirits and hallucinogens, which is what has led you to your current situation. Anything that I give you will no doubt quickly be converted into such things. I’ll not contribute to furthering your already decaying plight.

The man’s face softened. His eyes became glassy as he began to stare at something intangible. It was the kind of look a soldier displays when recalling old battles, and good friends long gone. His voice cracked as he spoke. No sir, but truly I was once as you are now. I was a man with a place to go, for as it was once written, the most important thing for a man is to have a place to go, would you not agree? Indeed sir, I was a king over others. I spoke, and they listened. I ordered, and they obeyed without hesitation. But even as the mightiest empires crumble, my downfall came with a swift vengeance. And now, with time and nature as my master, I am as you see.

Mr. Flur kept his derogatory tone. "Don’t peddle your obscene fabrications on me, you whelp! You, a king? You must take me for a fool, and you wear the rags! It is you that ask me for money, miserable wretch. His face lost its harsh edge, but only in mockery. But perhaps the tale you tell is true. Gather round, all you who wish to hear this sad story. Listen, as the blind poet tells of a hero that lost his way home. Let it be a warning to the haughty and misanthropic."

A tear began to roll down the beggars rosy cheek. His face showed a timid smile, and the jar once again disappeared into the rags from where it had come. I’m sorry to have troubled you sir, he managed to choke out. Have a pleasant night. Stay warm. With that he turned to go away, his shoulders drooping, perhaps more than when he had approached. Mr. Flur had no pity for him. If he doled out his earnings to everyone in want, he would soon be begging for alms. He was not malevolent. He took no joy in seeing suffering. But that was simply how the world was, and dispensing a few coins to a beggar would do nothing to change that.

The man had scarcely made it a few steps when he came to an abrupt halt. Overhead, heavy rhythmic steps could be heard, making the wooden bridge creek, making their way across, destined for where they both now stood. Oh no, he moaned. He waited a few seconds more, looking as if he was calculating an equation in his head. Finally he began to run. His breathing was already heavy, though he hadn’t gone very far. It was clear that whatever he was running from, it terrified him. Like a racer sprinting to the finish line, he ran, his finish line being anywhere but here. He had almost made it past the landing of the bridge, when a mammoth like hand bolted out of nowhere and wrapped it’s gargantuan grip around his neck. The beggar stopped dead in his tracks, almost being lifted completely off the ground. Mr. Flur was unable to prevent the rictus that was sprawled on his face. The whole scene was unfolding as if in a dream. The beggar tried frantically to release the force that bound him, squirming, flailing, even clawing, but to no avail. As the body attached to the enormous hand came into the light, everything began to make sense.

The figure stood well taller than Mr. Flur, as well as double his body mass. The deep crimson uniform he wore immediately identified him as a patrol officer. This explained his massive stature. It was generally believed that it was easier to engender fear than respect. What better way to illicit fear than to be confronted by someone twice your size? Of course rumors abounded about steroids and growth enhancements, but the official stance of the Patrol Corps was that it only employed those who were naturally larger in stature. The rank insignia on the officers lapel showed him to be a lieutenant, junior grade. Although not allowed to carry projectile weapons for fear of injury to any bystanders, he did carry a thick baton on his left side. Two metal prongs at the end allowed an electrical charge to be sent through any who weren’t sufficiently pacified by the baton itself.

Technically speaking, begging was illegal. However, the offense was so minor, and nothing more than an annoyance to others, that it was generally overlooked by most patrol officers. It seemed, however, that this one was not of the majority. As he walked closer, his features became more distinguishable. He looked to be in his mid thirties. His hair was closely cut to his scalp, but such a style was quite common with men of his profession. Bushy eyebrows that almost met each other in the middle draped above his eyes. A square, broad jaw line gave him a constant look of sternness. This, coupled with his size, made him quite an imposing sight. Mr. Flur mused to himself that if it were not for his explanatory uniform, he might be quite frightened of being robbed. The officer still held the beggar upright, with the latter still frantically attempting to escape his grasp. The whole scene was strangely reminiscent of a puppeteer with his dancing marionette. Were the circumstances different, Mr. Flur might have chuckled. But even he had his limits.

The officer broke the silence by speaking first. He had a baritone voice, which seemed apropos. Good evening sir. My name is officer Vek. Was this man troubling you?

Mr. Flur held up his hands in a diffusing manner. No officer, not quite. We were simply having a discussion. I’m sure he was about to be on his way.

The beggar instantly took the generous cue. Yes, just talking. You have no proof to the contrary, and therefore no right to detain me!

He seemed to have quickly mustered up a great deal of courage to so vociferously vocalize his discontent. It was an attitude the patrol officer did not take to kindly. He pulled the beggar in close, to the point where his bushy eyebrows were practically grazing the other man’s forehead. I know what you were doing, he said in a tone so menacing, it could have been mistaken for a whisper. Whisper or not, though, things were quickly becoming more and more dire for the beggar, and he knew it. The look of recalcitrance instantly disappeared from his face.

W-what are you going to do? he stammered.

The officer slackened his grip on him a bit, and turned to face Mr. Flur, with what seemed to be a deceptively pleasant face. Do you know what the problem is with pests and other vermin? he asked. Mr. Flur understood the question to be rhetorical, and therefore kept silent. An uneasy feeling was building inside of him. The only way to get rid of them, he said as he drew out his baton from its holster, is to kill them.

Mr. Flur could see what was going to happen with vivid clarity. He was many things indeed. Selfish when it suited, deceitful when attempting to escape blame, greedy when it came to money. All these things Mr. Flur would himself willingly admit to being. But violent, that he was not. What purpose did violence serve? Senseless in every way, violence was such an empty thing. And while he was all too glad to give this beggar an acerbic reply, a good verbal thrashing, he certainly would not have wished actual physical harm on him. For these reasons, he attempted to play the role of advocate.

Come now, good man, no harm was done. You’ve ruffled his feathers, no doubt about that. He’s definitely learned his lesson, indeed. Why not leave it at that and call it a night, what say you? It’s certainly cold out, wouldn’t it be nicer indoors?

The tension was as taut as a drum skin. Painful seconds ticked by while not a word was said. The beggar, hoping he would be released, and Mr. Flur, hoping he hadn’t made himself a target as well. The three men stood there, as statues decorating the park. As was the case before, the patrol officer broke the silence. Very well, he said, as he holstered his baton. Both men breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Flur felt a rush of pride, feeling that he had saved this poor soul from a disastrous fate. The officer released his hold on the beggar, and straightened the rags that had become disheveled in the process. There is just one thing, though, he said.

What is that, good sir? he responded cheerfully.

Without warning the officers hand quickly became a fist, and planted squarely in the stomach of the beggar. He collapsed in a fit of wheezing coughs, scarcely able to draw breath. I don’t mind the cold, the officer said, with a twisted smile. The beggar continued to gasp, eyes wide in fear and consternation. Blood began to trickle down the corner of his mouth. Mr. Flur was frozen, as if he had literally become a statue, lifeless, powerless to help. Now, continued the officer, as you mentioned, it’s cold out sir. Why don’t you run along home, I’m sure it would be nicer indoors, don’t you?

Mr. Flurs eyes darted between the officer and the beggar. He tried to speak, but to no avail. The latter looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. His arm began to reach to him, but faltered. He opened his mouth, letting more blood escape. Tears began to build in his eyes. Please sir, help me. He needn’t have said a word, though. His face spoke in ways no language could have conveyed. The man was doomed, and there was simply nothing for it.

The officer took a step towards Mr. Flur, which quickly woke him from his daze. He instinctively recoiled, taking a step back, keeping the distance between them as it was before. The officer returned to his lowered tone. Leave sir. Now. Almost against his will, he turned about, and began walking away. It was as if he was now the puppet, heeding the pull on his strings, unable to do otherwise. He could hear the beggar continue to cry out. He put his hands over his ears, but his memory took over and he continued to hear the screams. This was madness! Beat a defenseless man, who already had nothing? And for what? Madness! Those wretched screams would haunt him for the rest of his days, he just knew it.

Thankfully, Mr. Flur was not immune to the numbing effect of distractions. Distractions are the glue that bind our world together when it has been shattered by tragedy. Not all people turn to vice for distraction. Books, art, music, theatre. All these are much more innocuous forms, yet just as destructive when used to blind ourselves from reality. Even a fond memory can serve this insidious end. Such was the case with Mr. Flur. As he walked, and more distance was put between himself and the shocking, violent debacle, he started to think of the beautiful blooms he had seen, and a smile came to his face. The noise became less and less distinct. The feeling in his stomach began to fade. By the time he made his egress from the park, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Before long he was whistling and trotting along home. All was well again. He would soon be home, well fed, and warm. Distraction had accomplished its purpose.

And thus the curtain closes on this day. Sans the drama in the park, it was not unlike many other days. Specific events may vary, but in the end, it is as waves in the ocean. Different shapes of the same substance. The ocean, however, can be such a tumultuous place.

2

Again, rest escaped him that night. He fell asleep quickly, but woke feeling as though he had not slept at all. Though, as everyone does, he merely dismissed it, not even entertaining the idea that it may only be a symptom of a much deeper ill. He took his shower, ingested his stimulants, and pushed through the fatigue, as if one could conquer the wind, or command the rain to halt its descent. If only we could have a third party to observe our life as a whole instead of focusing on isolated instances. The physician begins his diagnosis by examining the entire body. If the problem pertains to the leg, he does not refuse to treat it, wishing instead that the arm were ailing. How often it is, that we behave as Mr. Flur. The problem confronts us, it shows itself right before our very eyes, mocks us, belabors us, spits in our face, and yet we say, ‘I feel nothing,’ or ‘I see nothing.’ This was the way of Mr. Flur, in that he did not see his callous heart, could not feel the vitriol slowly eating away at his soul. Or perhaps, he simply did not want to see or feel these things.

He went about his morning ritual, arriving at his office at 9:00 sharp. Again, as he shut the door behind him, a sigh left his lips, but this time it was hardly audible, more felt than heard. Perhaps he was simply tired. Placing his overcoat on the coat rack beside the door, he sat at his desk. Eyeing the stack of papers on his desk, he paused. It was a curious thing, since he normally did not procrastinate in his work, preferring usually to get right to it. He did not know why he delayed. Rather, he just sat there, staring at the papers that occupied the center of his desk. A nagging feeling crept into his thoughts. Could it be he was timid? Fearful that there would be another eviction today? Had the events of yesterday really troubled him so? He honestly hadn’t thought about the family that had lost their home. Now that he was thinking about them, he did wonder what they were doing. Last night had been colder than usual. Had they been alright? Were the children getting enough food? What if…

He immediately stood erect. Stop this foolishness, he told himself. Those people are out on the streets because they failed to adhere to the rules of society. Fretting over their well-being will accomplish nothing. Sitting down again, he forcefully grabbed the stack of papers and began leafing through them. He did not feel any calmer, but indolence would accomplish nothing either, so he might as well work. A rap at his door made him jump. Who in blazes would be disturbing him now? Yes, come in, he yelled. In walked a man who looked to be in his sixties, bald head, and a neatly trimmed beard. Seemingly fit for his age, gray facial hair was the only discernible thing that betrayed his age. Jeweled rings adorned all of his fingers except two. He wore no jacket, but had a tailored shirt, with large gemstones set in the cuff links. He wore suspenders in lieu of a belt, but even those looked to be of the finest quality material. His pants were perhaps the only part of his wardrobe that could be considered normal; they were brown and cuffed at the bottom. His shoes, however, more than made up for anything that might have been lacking above. Made of animal hide, the pattern was so unique that one could hardly determine which species of animal it was. Likely, it was one that was now extinct, the few that remained were used to make a handful of shoes that only the obscenely wealthy could afford. On the top of each one was a family crest of some sort, clearly put there after purchase by the owner. The entire outfit bordered on meretricious, but the man carried such an obvious air of authority, that no one would dare tell him so.

Mr Flur snapped up as a soldier would when being addressed by a general. Mr. Orox, what a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you’d be stopping by. Please, come in.

Mr. Orox was his direct supervisor, the Regional Director of Fiduciary Division III. It was odd how three letters could make such a prodigious difference. Mr Flur’s position earned him respect from others. Mr. Orox’s, however, made people all but prostrate themselves at his feet whenever he would walk by. Naturally, Mr. Flur envied his superior’s position, and desperately strove to one day attain it, or rip it from the other man’s grasp. The difference in pay was also astronomical, yet, oddly, the workload seemed to be substantially less. Such a thing seemed common in this world, though. Those that labored and toiled the hardest were the most impoverished, while others who did little to nothing at all wallowed in crapulence. Mr. Orox shut the door and put on a very practiced, very polished business smile.

Rassimus, my boy, how are you? Sit down, sit down. We’re a business, not a militia. Ha!

Mr. Flur struggled not to roll his eyes. He hated being called by his first name, at work anyways. It seemed so horribly unprofessional. And telling him to sit down. As if that pompous windbag didn’t love every second that people grovelled at his feet. Hypocritical twit!

It’s such a shame that we don’t get to see each other more often, I really do wish you’d visit more, Mr. Flur said, pandering to him.

Mr. Flur hated himself for being such a perfidious two-facer. But in life, even cherished principles had to be dispensed when dealing with situations such as these. Mr. Orox put a leg up and perched on the corner of his desk. How revolting! Far be it for him to deign to take a seat and face him as an equal, as men! Never may that be so. Take the high ground, keep the upper hand. Mr. Flur hated this man a little more every time he saw his wrinkled, liver spotted face.

I wish I could, Rassimus, I wish I could. So, how are things with you? How has life been?

Why people felt the need to engage in this ornate ritual of verbal sparring was beyond Mr. Flur. No one really cared how someone else was doing, or how their life was. Society dictated that we should care, and therefore we aimlessly ask these insipid questions, not really paying much attention to the answer. It is like an abandoned ship drifting about the water. No destination, no purpose, complete wastefulness.

Just fine, sir. Thank you for asking. And you?

Yes, it’s true, he would also engage in this pointless habit. But as discussed before, he wasn’t exactly going to explain his philosophies to his superior. His sense of self preservation far outweighed his sense of self respect. All of us have been guilty of this at one time or another.

Busy. Very busy. I’m sure you can imagine, he said with a chuckle.

What I can imagine, thought Mr. Flur, is how the amount of money you waste on entertaining yourself probably surpasses what everyone else in this building makes in a year, including myself! He could tolerate it no longer. The play had been performed. Enough was enough.

So, to what do I owe the pleasure sir?

Mr. Orox’s face took on a serious tone, the smile vanishing instantly. It was as if there was a switch in his head that controlled it, and all he had to do was flick it off. Mr. Flur assumed that was a bad omen. His superior shifted a bit, and his eyes began to wander, until they stopped at a spot on his desk.

You’re missing your abacus, he said.

Mr. Flur was at first puzzled. He had grown so anxious that he didn’t quite comprehend what he was talking about at first. He followed his eyes to where Mr. Orox was staring, and his heart sank. The abacus! He had been so distracted yesterday and today that he’d forgotten all about it. And now, the man that had given it to him was sitting right on his desk. That damned abacus would be the death of him! His head was spinning, but he tried his best to improvise.

Oh, yes…well…it’s a funny thing, you know. I’ll occasionally have people stop in here, to drop off or collect reports, food delivery, that sort of thing you know. And I swear to you that nearly every single person that came in here would mention it and say how handsome it was, how romantic, being of ancient descent and all that. Well, it got to the point where I myself was becoming enamoured with it, couldn’t stop staring at it. I even began to feel guilty, because…well…you see…I mean that during work hours, I certainly didn’t want to be preoccupied with anything else other than my work. So naturally I realized I couldn’t keep it here. But since you gave it to me, and I really did cherish it beyond measure, I decided to keep it at my home. There, I am free to marvel at it whenever I like, and for however long I like.

Mr. Orox stared at him for a bit, not saying a word, as if processing the absurd fabrication. Then, as if strings were attached to both corners of his mouth, he began to smile. At first only a grin, but it continued to grow until it covered half his face. He began to laugh. Mr. Flur wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not, so he waited with a neutral look.

Well, bellowed Mr. Orox, I had no idea. Ha! I must say I considered keeping it for myself, as I too fancied it, but I never imagined my gift could bring such joy to you. Ha ha ha.

Amazing, thought Mr. Flur. Even he could see what a ridiculous explanation that was. This megalomaniac was so in love with himself, however, that he couldn’t even fathom the possibility. However, on this occasion, his supervisor’s over -inflated ego worked to his benefit, and he was not about to waste the opportunity. They spent a moment laughing together, until again, things took a serious tone.

Let me get right to it, Rassimus. There’s been something of a mix up, clerical error, likely. Some funds are missing and we’re trying to track them down.

Mr. Flur had a look of shock. Missing? How is that even possible? Well, no matter. Tell me what you’d like me to do, I’m sure I can find them. No surprise why you came to me, sir. I do have somewhat of a knack for these things. He trailed off as Mr. Orox raised his hand.

Well, the thing is Rassimus….oh my, this is awkward. You see, we’ve had people on this for some time. There was a trail, and they followed it. Right to you.

The words hung in the air for a moment. Now it was Mr. Flur’s turn to process what his supervisor had