Blind.Faith 2.0.50. Tomasz Tatum

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СКАЧАТЬ in the wee hours of the morning, when they regularly do precisely that which they are intended to do. The particular model standing on the hardwood nightstand in Ch.ase’s bedroom was actually a visibly cheap one. This particular clock, along with dozens of others of similarly questionable design, was stacked haphazardly late one afternoon in a blue plastic corrugated bin on rollers standing to the right of the aisle that led to the scanners at a local mega.Marché. Ch.ase had picked it up on a whim, valiantly warding off a fit of boredom while awaiting his turn in the queue that led to the scanner station. Having repeatedly watched the headlines–LOVE HER TENDER: ELVIS REINCARNATION BAPTIZES 48 LB. BABY IN EUREKA, followed by CLONE YOUR OWN: FOR DETAILS, USE LINK TO PAGE 3–flash by, his gaze soon fell upon an irregular stack of clocks in what appeared to be pseudo-chrome-wire packaging stored in the aforementioned plastic bins that lined the aisle next to him. Within the wire packaging, each clock was wrapped in a cheap, but somehow trendy-looking, transparent plastic bubble foil package similar to those used to sell soft-rubber chewable pet toys that squeaked annoyingly prior to being inadvertently swallowed by flustered canines or bitten to pieces by the more ignorant ones.

      Ch.ase wasn’t absolutely certain why he felt spontaneously obligated to purchase this ugly clock, but he did nonetheless on this one fine day do exactly that. Perhaps he did so because the clear soft recyclable polyurethane packaging proclaimed it in bold lettering to be a genuine freedom.Day limited edition super-saver real!Deal, at least this was the way Ch.ase seemed to recall it. It was hopelessly tacky, liberally adorned with a flag motif on giddy futuristic stellar black plastic and a welter of tasteless ornate neo-gothic, pseudo-chrome trimming. Perhaps it was some subconscious impulse that had driven him to purchase the clock, underscoring his personal patriotism in the face of a never-ending onslaught of various ongoing national emergencies–in fact, the alert level had actually escalated to magenta for a few hours on that particular day. More likely, however, was that he may have felt some inward swell of anxiety as he pondered the existence, activities and motives of an anonymous store detective whom he couldn’t see, but who he instinctively guessed would no doubt be eyeing him, and all others in the store, on a barrage of softly luminescent screens or on a next.Gen MindjSet as he sat tucked away in the stuffy confines of an otherwise darkened back-office cubicle, leaning far back on his chair and likely scratching his crotch as he watched the queue inch forward soundlessly all day long. Indeed, it was conceivable that it might even be considered outright unpatriotic to pass over such a great bargain.

      Ch.ase rolled over, yawning and scratching his stomach absently before continuing onward to attend to a sudden persistent itch on his right buttock. Groaning somewhat as he laboriously heaved himself onto his left side with his eyes still squeezed tightly shut, his right hand swung drunkenly overhead the nightstand like some derelict shipyard crane. It groped about clumsily in the still contourless spacey void surrounding his bed as it searched, unsuccessfully at first, for the source of this unwelcome early morning disturbance. Annoyed at this initial setback, Ch.ase finally succeeded after managing to pry open his eyes just a tiny crack to assist in orientation. Upon doing so, he ventured his first cautious glance at the faintly luminescent numbers visible on the slightly smudged face of the clock. Taking in a deep breath, he drew his legs up somewhat under the warmth of the blanket, doubling slightly as he lay there in a near-fetal position with his hand resting flat on his abdomen just below his navel. Remaining semi-petrified in this position for an indeterminate length of time, visions of immense silver-skinned meteorological weather balloons began spontaneously bouncing about in the still-sluggish grey matter between his ears. It was as though he were sitting leisurely in front of the telly.tube, watching the balloons float aimlessly and effortlessly about, first here, then there, growing ever larger as they ascended smartly in the ionosphere that was his lower gut. Completely stationary and still enveloped in his blanket, he vaguely began to comprehend the significance of these visions as he registered the first urgent call of his long-neglected bladder, now clearly communicating one of its most immediate requirements to the still-stationary cerebral cortex regions entrusted with the mundane task of regulating it and a number of his more immediate basic biological functions.

      And though the transition from sleep to waking was for Ch.ase a process best described as gradual, his synapses were indisputably beginning to come online now. One brief burst of concentrated activity was all that he required in order to formulate an accurate assessment his present situation. Although he admittedly wasn’t yet very far into the day, he had somehow already instantaneously determined, whether on the basis of past experience or simply by intuition, that it would be a safe assumption to state that this day was going to feel like crap.scheiss as it progressed.

      This unhappy sensation of his may have been reinforced to some small degree by the fact that 5:00 am was, when viewed objectively, far too early to reasonably expect a chronically-harried person in his elevated position to regularly commence working day’s activities in anything other than a state of fatigue, confusion or, alternatively, the foulest of moods. His days were just too long to begin this early with a smile.

      All that rubbish about whistling while you work certainly didn’t apply to this kind of situation and Ch.ase, for one, staunchly refused to feel apologetic in the least about this.

      Getting up this early sucked.

      But unfortunately, in the course of humanity’s daily trials and tribulations, it is a fact of everyday life that intentions can at times become subject to perversion through the simplest necessities. And thus it was now, as the time was rapidly nearing for Ch.ase to get into gear, to clamber out of bed and begin with at least the most rudimentary preparations for going to work.

      Philosophy was for the idle.

      So by now, with the passing of no more than just a few fleetingly short minutes, duty had begun summoning him in a voice that was as clear and keen as that of a siren back in the days of mythical lore, albeit considerably less seductively. Ch.ase no longer led the unhurried life of some mere mortal rehabilitation officer in an elementary position at dep.Corr, as the state corrections system was officially referred to. Instead, he had fairly bolted his way up the career ladder within this institution, ascending it in an impressive, almost breathtaking, series of leaps and bounds. His success had culminated in his having recently been awarded promotion to the much-coveted position of facility warden at a trendy chic showpiece maximum security facility commonly referred to in Libertyville@Esperantia as da.Maze.

      Although this term was in reality technically false because it represented only a sloppy translation of its official teutonically-inspired name, irr.Garten Penal and Corrections, Inc., it was nonetheless so commonly referred to as da.Maze that the name eventually stuck, no doubt in part due to some convoluted admiration of the namesake, a similar Irish institution of yore. Indeed, it had in the meanwhile become accepted, if not fashionable, to refer to it as such since only a relatively diminutive handful of people in Libertyville@Esperantia were suitably endowed with the ability to convincingly pronounce the kind of stern diction embodied in the facility’s true name. It was often half-joked that a two to four generation ancestry harking back to some obscure distant Franconian hillbilly hole-in-the-wall town was arguably the minimum pedigree required to produce the double “R” sound contained within the name irr.Garten with any semblance of authenticity, allowing it to rattle sharply over the top of one’s tongue with the suitably arrogant intonation before suddenly snapping into the following “G” consonant. From a pronunciation point of view, it was probably no great overstatement to describe it as the phonetic equivalent of a barrel roll combined with an Immelmann. In the local vernacular, the name often enough mutated to something vaguely resembling “eargarden”.

      But da.Maze, by contrast, was infinitely easier to pronounce and everyone knew exactly what was meant by it anyhow. And it could well be argued that the image of the facility in the public’s perception probably over time even gained a bit more mystique through this makeshift translation that had gained such widespread acceptance.

      As he lay on the bed, now prone on his back but with his somewhat knobby whitish knees angled skyward, Ch.ase–having nearly lost the first tentative skirmish СКАЧАТЬ