Hole Punch by Simmons, Garth (english books to improve english txt) 📗

“What about me NARC!” shouted the girl.

The Sergeant regarded her coolly through his sunglasses.

“You have the right to shut your bleeding cake-hole luv.”

TEMP

Just as my three tabs of acid kick in, a “colleague” starts talking to me next to the coffee machine.

“Have you thought about applying for a permanent position?” he asks. “It’d be good for you to settle down and have some stability.”

“Why would I want to work here forever?” I ask him. “I’m not fooled as easily as the rest of you. You aren't permanent! You don’t even know what permanent means! You don’t even know what temporary means! Stability?! You think you're stable?!”

He awkwardly apologises and walks away. I follow him, my mocha sloshing on my hand as I quicken my pace. I’m not done with him yet.

“What’s wrong?” I laugh, closing in. “Your social pleasantries gone wrong? Is this too real for you?”

At the end of the corridor there's an organisational chart.

“Look at the faces on that chart? Half of them are redundant and some of them are DEAD!”

He walks around the corner, timidly looking over his shoulder.

“Look at them! Your permanence is an illusion! These faces, like your face, are mere integers of the ever mutating organism of the corporate survival machine!”

I kick over a recycling bin and chase him down the corridor.

“You're a flesh and bone paving slab worn down by the shoes of your superiors! Whereas me!”

I grab hold of him and pin him against wall.

“I'm the substance of our ever-changing everything! I'm the decay in your teeth! The spirit you’ll never have! I'm a temp!!”

Strong security guard arms drag me away.

“Read some books before it’s too late! Reality is of a rhizomic structure! Break free of your circuitry illusion!”

* * *

Five minutes later, I'm escorted outside by security. I lean against a wall. I light up a cigarette. Some school children walk towards the office in single file. A gaggle of docile ducklings.

"That's right!" I shout at their teacher. "Feed them to Moloch! Our next generation of slaves! This way into the machine! All hail the Panopticon!”

BROTH

Manteb rubbed his chubby face with nettles and chuckled in agony.

“It’s good nettles isn’t it sir?” said the swamp scout at his front door.

“Oh yes,” smiled the boil cheeked, puss-sored Manteb. “Most stinging.”

Manteb paid the swamp scout a whole envelope of buttons. The swamp scout dragged his massive purse of nettles into Manteb’s kitchen. Manteb poured the nettles into his mixing funnel.

“I’m going to make the prickliest nettle broth on this side of the Blurt Hexagon!”

GENTRIFY

In the trendy upmarket suburb of Shaldon, they are very familiar with gentrification. The quirky and colourful chain bar, Strangest, has rows and rows of barbecue pits which sell culturally appropriated street food.

"Get your JERK chicken and your URBAN street SALAD!" said the pale chef with dreadlocks. "ASSimulate the drowned CITY and DEAD poor people VIBE into your WHITE privileged STOMACHS!"

The people sat around hoo-ha-haing about the greatness of socialism as they chewed on the greased ashes of their friendly, care and share capitalism.

DISRESPECT

Akira Otaro sat with the Plutonian businessman. The Plutonian was a strange humanoid with almond eyes and smooth lilac skin, so soft and delicate.

“I'll show you lots of fun in this town,” said Akira Otaro. “And we'll talk about the final settlement tomorrow.”

The Plutonian accepted Akira Otaro's offer.

Akira Otaro took the Plutonian to a fish and noodle restaurant. Akira offered the Plutonian a glass of wine. The Plutonian refused to drink alcohol.

“It makes our people go crazy,” said the Plutonian.

“Surely that's the point!” scoffed Akira.

After their meal, they went to a Sumo-wrestling match.

“I decide who wins and who loses,” said Akira.

“How?”

“I give them money to win or lose.”

“How do you profit from that?”

Akira indicates the crowd.

“They are making bets on these fights and when they bet on the wrong wrestler I take their money!”

“But what if they all bet on the right wrestler?”

“They never do, not all of them. I always know which wrestler is going to win.”

“How do you know which wrestler is going to win?”

“Because I decide which wrestler will win. I decide who wins and who loses. Haven't you been listening?”

The Plutonian strokes his chin in thought.

“This is not real.”

“What?”

“This is not real. You have nothing to offer the Plutonian Summit except for your dishonesty.”

The Plutonian teleported back to his spaceship.

“Come back here!” shouted Akira at the ceiling. “No one disrespects me!”

DEBT

On television, the sports commentator is excited:

“Look at our brave Collector boys chasing after her! Led by Trevor Jock: the fastest Collector of his generation! Look at her! Thinking she can get away! She doesn't stand a chance and YES! It's happened! They have her on the floor now! Look at her! Trevor Jock kicking her in the ribs! She thought she could outrun debt! Well, we've got news for you BABY! If you owe money you'd better pay it back! Look her now! Shitting and pissing herself! Oh YES! That's good. Shock her with those taser guns! Should have made your payments on time darling! Should have made your payments on time!”

* * *

In a clean, white room, Mr and Mrs Reynolds are signing up to the Angel Trust Debt Repayment Plan.

"That's right," said the salesman, who had his own problems. "Condense your overdue debts into one manageable sum. All you have to do is make your payments on time."

"Please do it quickly," pleaded Mrs Reynolds. “They are waiting for us outside."

“One moment,” said Mr Reynolds. “Tell me your interest rates first.”

“We freeze our interest rates for the first six months at only fourteen percent.”

“Please,” said Mrs Reynolds. “They'll come in here and get us if we take too long.”

“I'm not sure,” said Mr Reynolds.

* * *

The Collector Squad reclaim the