23 Jul

Thanks Diogo in his DimEcaverna for the tip.


“Thank you, sir. Your new identification card will arrive soon”. I hang up the phone as I thought of all the other calls and requests that had to be made. 8:24. Must hurry. Job. I got up to take a shower. My boss would know my new identification by now. My badge remade, my desk switched, and all the papers I had ever signed would be replaced. Got out, dressed up, and looked out the window. The gigantic tower of the Republic cast a shadow over the city, and blocked my sun. 8:45. Must hurry. Job.

I walked out, pressing my thumb in the pad beside the door, automatically sealing the house. The car was by the front porch. An 1990 Chevrolet Camaro. It was 32 years old, but to me it worked as though it was new. 8:49. Must hurry. Putting the small black suitcase in the passenger’s seat, I drove. The Republic was not far, and the building – or the torso as I called – was not hard to find. Still, no one ever remembered its street. People never took directions nowadays. It was pointless. They would be relabeled. They always were. 8:56. Finally arrived.

Passing through the security system, they checked my saliva. As soon as the 10-seconds-process was complete the guard let me pass. “Good morning, Mr. Imbecile”. Just yesterday I had been Mr. Baldy, but I guess that being Imbecile was now more cared about than being bald. Stopping at the front desk, Mrs. Charming gave me my new badge. I took the elevator. 9:00. I was at my desk. My new desk. It had my new label on it. I looked at my computer, and saw the post-it note on the screen. Sitting down, I took the small yellow paper off my monitor and read it.

RL – book on desk

There was a book on my desk. Apparently the author of “The green house of the hilltop” had been cheated on by his wife. His whole image of perfection had been blown. He was now Mr. Fraud. My task was simple. Re-label his name on the cover and inside the book, and destroy the old version. An order was being released to all citizens to giver their copies back. The new relabeled one would be given in return. They Republic thought people would not notice. We all knew it. We all lived it.

I was tired. My whole life I have had the worst labels. When I was born I was Dysfunction (I had been born prematurely). When I first went to school I had become Lame. In High School I was Faggot. Until yesterday I was Bald; now I’m Imbecile. And they were right. I am as Imbecile as one could be. Imbecile enough to be slave of those labels. Right now I’m changing someone’s life work. Re-labeling it. Denigrating it. I became what I loathe. Maybe my next label is Kiss-ass. The Republic made my life miserable too long. Enough. 9:20. The book is relabeled. The other burned. I myself have a copy. I’ll keep it.

The day goes by. More labels to change. Not names, not titles. Labels. Like those white ones you use to identify the parts of a school binder, and get tore and dirty with time. Those you can easily replace. That’s all we have, all we live for, or live of. Labels define ourselves, our friends, our lovers, our body, and even – in some cases – our sexual preference. No girl wanted me in High School. Even though I liked them, they didn’t like faggots. Mind is pointless. Still is the only place where I am my label-less me. My mind has not agreed upon the lies that are my life. God… is humanity lost? Even God has been relabeled. He is now Commander. 6:02. They are wrong. To me God was God, and Mr. Fraud was still Mr Perfection. And I… I was Mr. Free. 6:03. Time to go.

In the way back I turned on the radio. All the books had to be turned in by now. Some of my co-workers went home earlier on to get their copies. I kept mine. 6:11. Home sweet home. I opened the mail box. My new documents had arrived. Mr. Imbecile here had now four hours to return the old ones; they worked over night. I had dinner alone, always alone. The house smelled of pity. 7:36. went to bed earlier.

BAM! 11:17. I heard the noise. Four armed man kicked my door and circled me. “Mr. Imbecile. You did not return your copy of “The green house of the hilltop.”

“No. I kept my copy. I like it better without being relabeled.”

“Sir, do you understand this is a capital crime?”

“A crime? What crime is in wanting the truth,” a man entered the room. That face was known to me. Mr. Head, a powerful figure within the Republic.

“Mr. Imbecile. I will give you a chance. Just give us you book and you can get any label you want,” the offer was promising, but I had made up my mind. I didn’t answer. Instead, I closed my eyes and lay down back in the bed.

“Very well. You shall get a new label. Brainless,” he motioned and gave the command.

They shot. The final lies that were my life had been agreed by all but one… my mind. 11:25. I was the Brainless Mr. Free.


2 Responses to “THE LIES AGREED UPON.”

  1. Dime July 23, 2008 at 6:56 pm #

    Future government controlling your documents was a bit out of my original idea, but it’s a good one. Call me Mr. Commander.

    And you missed my link, there’s no “i” in “Dimecaverna”

  2. Felipe July 24, 2008 at 3:08 am #

    Labels are dangerous.

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