Blind.Faith 2.0.50. Tomasz Tatum

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      “Wow. And a grand prize, winning numbers. And all-expense paid trips,” volunteered Ch.ase in amazement as he shook his head.

      Valbånger beamed his familiar grin again. “And it really is cool, believe me. No-fault justice at its finest. Just think about it: the audience gets its chance to participate in the administration of a suitable penalty for the candidate. If the candidate dazzles them or is too smart for the regular proceedings, the governor has the option of simply asking the machine to take over. Man, it’s a hell of a lot more elegant than the old days, like back when the Romans indulged in their awful reprehensible habits, like feeding folks they didn’t like–Christians and thieves, for example–to their collection of playful but very oversized and very famished pussycats. I tell you: humanity has really come a long way since then. And you know, there’s something else we should always keep in mind: capital.comtainment is very often intellectually enriching fare for those of us who are physically in attendance ...”

      He paused and spread his arms to indicate the two rows of seats again.

      “... because, believe me, candidates who we might politely describe as being mentally challenged simply never make it to the second round. That helps keep the pace up, enhances the drama and the entertainment value. That’s why the show is never, ever dull. Never.”

      For short time neither of the two men spoke. They simply sat in silence, each pondering their meeting, each other, the dread.commachine and their surroundings. After a short while their eyes met again.

      Ch.ase’ speech was clear and deliberate as he rose from his seat in the cove. “It’s incredible. This is truly civilized. I am impressed, Harvey.”

      “You should be, Ch.ase!” replied Valbånger coolly. “The ratings are simply fantastic.”

BARNZ AND THE BUENA.VISTA

      Barnz came sliding out feet first from beneath the vintage buena.Vista convertible that stood parked in the garage. The metal rollers of the creeper upon which he lay produced an obscenely loud ratcheting noise as they rolled and scraped their way across the bare concrete floor, heralding his emergence from beneath the left side of the car. The sound the rollers produced rapidly rocketed up the open-ended scale of aural unpleasantries, commencing with a boisterous rattle and culminating in an ear-splitting horrendous screeching, scratching sound. Sitting up straight and yet completely unfazed by the considerable commotion that he had just caused, Barnz paused to yawn heartily and wiped away a few annoying beads of sweat that dotted his brow. For this he used an old checkered blue and white dish towel which he habitually kept stuffed in the left sleeve of his grey overalls whenever he was working.

      And as Barnz was almost always working at some task or another, his dish towel rag was almost always near at hand.

      He was an innovative tinkerer and he was absolutely superb–some people might say divine–at improvisation. People who had had the pleasure or the simple good fortune to work together with him–Fulcrum, for example–might easily argue that he was something of a magician who was endowed with the gift of being able to resurrect anything mechanical from the kingdom of rust and disuse, or even death through consignment onto the scrapheap, and get it moving or in working order again.

      And it truly seemed that just about anything and everything Barnz touched ended up being as good as new, or even better.

      Squinting momentarily as a few tiny droplets of sweat burned briefly in his eyes, Barnz dried his face with his rag and then donned his shades again. Although he was completely and utterly sightless, his comprehension of everything that happened around him was complete and total. It was uncanny. It was almost as though he could, in some inexplicable manner, not only see but see absolutely everything.

      He sat motionless on the creeper for another moment, lost in his own thoughts while facing toward the open garage door and the street beyond. It still was very early in the morning and a hushed pre-rush hour quiet reigned outside. With the exception of a few pigeons which were cooing contentedly on a ledge of the ad.Board, momentarily eschewing a life of luxury at the beach courtesy of EscudoAirways, illuminated high above and behind the house, all was silent.

      Barnz turned as he rose from his creeper somewhat stiffly, cocking his head slightly as he looked up at an old clock hanging on the white-washed rear wall of his modest workshop as though his sightless eyes were helping him to read the dial. It was now 6:15 am. He had just spent nearly two full hours lying prone and tinkering away at something beneath the car.

      “Miracles take their time,” he thought and smiled to himself. He would have to be at work today by 7:00 am.

      A moment later Barnz had stood up and was wiping his hands on another rag, this one hanging over a strategically-placed polished chrome ring mounted near the light switch. Upon finishing, he grasped his white cane in passing and gave the creeper cart from which he had just alighted a leisurely push with his right foot, sending it rattling over toward the wall on the opposite side of the garage. It came to a halt directly before an improvised wooden work bench that was covered with an odd and jumbled assortment of tools.

      There were wrenches, screwdrivers, drill bits and hammers.

      Batteries and wires and scissors and light bulbs.

      Numerous springs and rods were strewn across the surface of the work bench. And cans, some of which were full and others empty.

      Oil and solvent.

      A few whose labels revealed that they contained paint and sealant.

      And somewhere, amid this small display of creative chaos, stood his coffee cup. Right where he had left it, of course. Barnz had an uncompromisingly purist approach toward his coffee in the morning.

      It had to be strong and black. No milk. No sugar.

      But then, this was actually rather unsurprising. After all, Barnz was a purist in almost everything he did and touched.

      Picking up his cup and taking it with him as he walked past, Barnz stepped over a second dolly cart and judiciously threaded his way between a collection of tools and car parts spread out across the floor in advance preparation for another job he was about to commence with. On the far side of the work bench, a small gleaming white basin was mounted on the wall. Upon reaching this, he turned on the water tap and held his hands briefly under the cold stream of water, subsequently gouging his fingers into the grainy yellow cleaning paste which he kept in yet another one of the gazillion cans that adorned his garage. This one was perched on a small ledge affixed directly next to the basin and mounted only slightly higher. He scrubbed hard, thoroughly cleansing his hands and fingernails, and rinsed them afterwards under the stream of running water spewing from the faucet. When he was done, he reached for an immaculately clean white hand towel, neatly folded at the top of a small stack that was positioned on a small metal shelf mounted directly beneath the basin and the ledge upon which the soap stood. With this he carefully dried his hands. After finishing, he quickly folded the towel in half again and tossed it into a small aluminum basket next to the door leading into the house.

      Upon landing in this basket, the hand towel was still–or again–clean and dry, ready to be folded.

      He rubbed his hands and fingers and gave them a look of approval as he walked toward a small white plastic table positioned adjacent to the front entrance door of the garage.

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