We're cleaning the room, the three of us, when the chick whose job's lookin' at it, she starts talkin' to me. And ya know, there's not much chance to socialize with folks here, let alone women, so. Yeah. Sure, I admit it, I get a little flustered there. She caught me off guard, you know? 'Specially cause she's all 'Hey! What the 'ell happen to you?'
The fuck was I gonna say? The truth?
My first gig was dangerous. I dunno, it didn't seem tough and they never told me much about it, some sorta [?]? I dunno, but all the strict shit sure kept me on edge all month, let me tell ya. First time, ya know how it is. So when my handler says next gig is a piece of cake, I don't realize yet he ain't jokin' around.
Now, I was a big dude then, beefy and shit. Worked out a ton. Good times. Anyway, point is I wasn't no pushover. But fuck me, the other two D-boys, twice my size. Big, ugly snow-white motherfuckers, nazis or somethin', and. Well. Yeah I flinched a bit, okay? They kept me hungry for a day, I got a little edgy. I admit it. Having a full fuckin' squad around us, geared up to the tooth, well. It helped a bit, but was a problem on its own. They haulin' us to a room and I'm gettin' worried. I worried a lot, I guess.
So we go in, and it's a cake. Heh. Big bad bitch, some 6 foot wide, 'nuff to feed a horse. To build a horse, and save sum for later. I know that too well now. You know, for a second, just a dumbfuck moment, I figure it might be a prize or somethin'. Good behavior. *sighs* So comms open up, and this lady says all robot-like that we gotta eat the cake in an hour.
An hour.
I know, I know. Could've been doing much worse. Hell, I did, later. You weren't there though. Even the white power twins got big eyes when they heard the comms. I just knew this'd be fucked. Guess I learn quick.
Funny thing is, they got all their guns and plates, meanwhile we don't even got spoons. Hands only, go wild. For the first bit I was cool. It wasn't too bad, the cake. The taste. Felt kinda gross when the brutes also dove in, but eh. Can't complain. Not yet. I figure this is why they want us hungry, why they pickin' big guys.
*huffs* Fuck, still makes me sick. Agh. Fuck off, don't gotta laugh like everyone else. It's a lot, okay? The cake? It's huge. It sounds like a lot, and it is. Other two ate more than me, I was pretty sick by the end of it. Least the one hour thing was just suggestion. We did our best, but there was still some left when miss roboto said time's up. So she let us keep eatin', as guards shook their guns at us.
It was fine, okay? Yeah they had my stomach pumped, but that was still like, top 3 scip-days in the joint. Not saying it ain't so. I get the laughin'.
See, hell started the next day, when they brought us back in, and the big bad creamy bitch was back. Like new.
Tell ya what, I don't wanna relive this, so let me hit you with the short version: every day, the only thing I ate was 25 pounds of cheap cream and dry spongecake, just to get my stomach pumped and have vitamins and shit stabbed in my arms. By Sunday, I lost my taste, burned my insides. Each bite was wet sand and creamy water. Two weeks, I'm half dead, trouble walkin', talkin', barely keep my mouth open, arms like led pipes. Takes hours with the cake now. Week three, I was so fuckin' numb and dead I didn't even see one of the D guys turned Latino. *chuckles* If Baldie's heart croaked in his sleep, or if a guard shot him cause of refusin' to eat, I couldn't fuckin' tell ya. Even if I spent all day eatin', vomitin', and sleepin'.
I don't know nothin' about the last week. And it ain't them amnesiacs either, pal. All natural.
Not funny anymore?
So this pretty little thing asks me the hell happen to me. I'm all grey skin an' bones, bloodshot eyes, hair fell out, barely holdin' my broom.
So what? I say I ate cake for a month? Fuck that. Last thing I need is some broad laughin' at me.
'Just mop the floor,' I say. *sigh* Wonder where she at now?
[Daniel Navarro, age 26, decided to meet me in the fast food restaurant he works at. It's his break time, and I can tell he's slightly nervous. Whether that's because of me or his manager — maybe both. Nonetheless, he's eager to talk.]
We're moppin' the floor, blood an' shit all over - you know that one?
[I nod.]
Cool. So I'm brushin' the shit and it stinks like hell when this chick, right, who's supposed to look at it, she starts talkin' to me. And you know, you don't really get a chance to socialize 'ere, 'specially with women, so. Yeah, okay, I get a little flustered. I admit it. Shit starts flying through my head cause, cause she went an' asked 'Hey Twenty! What's up with ya?' That was my number, dee-thirty-twenty.
Cause I was pale as ash, whimpy little stick-man then. I get where's coming from, the question. And I'm thinkin' there, cause this was a few years in, looking pretty hopeless, though I'd be outta there in a month or two with all the Korea shit. But I dunno that of course, not then. Anyway, like I said, you don't really get to talk to people, messes up your social skills, right?
But what the fuck was I supposed to tell her? The truth?
[He glances around a bit, fiddling with his fingers.]
See, my second gig at — no, no no. Okay, my first gig at the Foundation, it was odd. Well it's all odd I guess, that's kinda the point. But I mean, they just had me doing paperwork, transcribing videos, pretty mundane shit. I'm still on edge with all the 'security measures', guns and bandanas, but hey. We were criminals. I figure makes sense, just makes me uneasy's all. Right now, I figure they give the easy shit to newbies on purpose, grease you up. Or they just don' wanna gamble with fresh dice.
It was easy, is what I'm saying. But the second gig, now that — that was the wake-up call.
I didn't know nuthin' about it. They never tell you, till you're there of course. Take it all in right there in the moment. Frankly I don't get it. What if some Dee fucks off? I mean, they got the guns an' all, but would they really use 'em? With other Dees right there? Makes you wonder, don'it?
Right, right, so I'm heading to the room when I see two other Dees joining. And they got their own handlers and shit, but goddamn. See, I was pretty buff at the time, working out, before the skip of course. Good times. Anyway, I wasn't no [weakling] but these guys? Dees? Fuckin' twice my size. And yeah, I'm nervous. What with spec ops and Gog an' Magog here, yeah I'm pissing myself. What the hell am I in for here?
Wasn't a long walk, we get to the room. I'm first to go in, yippe fuck me. It's pure white, like something outta some cleaning comercial, spotless. And there's a table in the center, silver, gray, plastic. No chairs. No nothin', actually. Just a spotless table in a spotless room, and on the table it's a cake. Big one, size of a fucking horse I tell ya. God, for just a dumbfuck second, I actually thought this was like — shit man, I thought it might be prize. Like, good work thirty-twenty, here's sweets to celebrate.
[I smile.]
Funny, yeah. You uh, you can tell I was still fresh at the time, second gig an' all. Funny. And then the lady goes from the speakers all robot-like, she goes: 'You got one hour to eat the whole thing.'
One. Fucking. Hour.
Look I know — I know what this sounds like, I'm complainin' about eatin' fuckin' cake, big whoop. Get a loadda this guy, amirite? But you weren't there, pal. Just the three of us, eating a horse's worth of sugar an' butter. And there wasn't nothing there, remember? Means no forks, no knives, no plates even. Dig in with your hands or get shot, gross as it was I had to do it. Sad part is, it didn't even taste that great.
So the good thing is the hour thing was just a suggestion I guess. Miss Roboto showed up all serious, 'consumation is finished, hurry up assholes,' but no one roughed us up. Just stood there. Pretty good job we did, there were leftovers we had to clean up for, I dunno, extra twenty minutes maybe.
So look, I ain't gonna act like this was some 'nightmare' or somethin' — hell, it's probably still like top five skip days for me. And that's even when you count the stomach pumpin'. No, the nightmare came tommorow. When we came back to that same room, bit less stainless, and on the table, there she was. The same creamy bitch.
The cake from yesterday?
Yup. Like new. And just like yesterday, miss Roboto goes 'one hour to eat it.'
But how do you know it was the same cake?
[He nods, frowning.]
I didn't, then. Caught on to it after a while, though.
