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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A dystopic novel with some commentary on Communism, human decency, and maybe the true reason for wearing undergarments. Suggestions are appreciated.

Submitted: January 07, 2012

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Submitted: January 07, 2012




Another perfunctory man lived in another perfunctory house on the perfunctory Avenue Latze in the Pesodoric Commune.  He wiped his eyes every morning as a habit when he woke, so each morning he arose from his perfunctory bed with red, abused eyes and showered in his perfunctory bathroom before perfunctorily travelling by a perfunctory, engine-propelled platform to the perfunctory factory where he propagated a smorgasbord of odds and ends and evens and starts, and rarely would that factory produce the same thing for two consecutive days; on Tuesday, a variety of perfunctory hinges, Wednesday, perfunctory glass jars.  Some workdays, the perfunctory force (as it were) would disassemble what they had made the day before.  No one working in the facility had a complete idea of the goings-on, and not a single worker knew the name of the company under which, for as long as they could remember, they were employed.

The warm mist of the perfunctory shower head somewhat improved the sanguinary look of the man’s eyes, despite the shower only functioning for the regulation 29 seconds, which had been determined to be the least amount of time necessary for satisfactory sanitation.  Once that glorious moment ceased, an incessant din of clashing cymbals called attention to the arrival of his impatient, non-sentient platform transport.  One had to dress during the walk to the platform’s docking bay, a short walk that was completed in less than ten strides from the bathroom. 

Each dawn, it was a pasquinade, a mockery of a scene; thousands of circular discs, over which presided a glass dome like one would find covering a cake dish in a mid-western diner, each one carrying a similarly exhausted factory worker and held only by an extending metal arm.  One couldn’t help but be amused by the lab-rat-looking people, of which there was an uncountable multitude, each one weary-eyed and yawning, and wearing obnoxious, hideous teal jumpsuits.

The cake-dish platforms were often subject to grievous mechanical errors, claiming more lives every day.  Little was done to repair, besides putting on another platform on the empty-handed arm, and ensuring it could at least get the employee to the factory for one day’s work.

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