Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy by Karsten Krepinsky (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

of them stop the Diggers from taking over. Diggers? If you’ve ever lived below ground, you know what I’m talking about. Rough guys who feed on the city’s waste. Me, they respect, because I provide them with the occasional trip to a better world. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a Good Samaritan, but I don’t make empty promises.

Lucas is a Coptic Christian. His wife’s been dead for a long time. She got caught in the crossfire during some fight or the other in Syria and was hit by a ricochet shot. His son got killed that day, too. A real tragedy. Lucas doesn’t dare venture out into the streets, rather spending his days and nights inside the ticket booth. I can’t blame him. Like so many Copts, he’s been through an Odyssey of violence. And when he and his brethren finally managed to escape from Syria in the Twenties, they ended up being bullied by the Arabs in the refugee shelters. Looking back, I guess I was lucky to be taken in by the nuns in the orphanage. They didn’t suffer fools gladly, but at least you knew what to expect.

Quasim is less fearful than his buddy. He even goes out in the daytime now and then. He’s a Yazidi. I like to rib him because of his religion, but I always keep it nice. I’m just joking, I swear. These guys are Zoroastrians. A faith older than Judaism, Quasim claims. Alas, not any more popular, I usually reply. During the exodus of the Yazidi from Syria even children had to lend a hand, toting their ancient tomes. A story, which I find touching. The little ones saved their peoples’ holy scriptures from falling into the clutches of the so-called Islamic State, who saw the trek off with gunshots and grenades.

Living with the two of them can be a little trying at times. They simply don’t stop arguing. As much as I understand that they have valid reasons to hate the Lemons, I don’t want to come home to these bad vibrations after a long day of work. Lemons here, Lemons there. Blah, blah, blah. All the evils of this world, summed up in a book written in the seventh century. The Lemons will, step by step, turn Germany into a replica of Islamic State, the two of them insist. Lord have mercy with me, because their constant nagging wears me out. After thirty minutes I’ve had enough of their tirades. I hide my briefcase in a cavity under the floor-tiles, take off my Glock, and stuff a few units of coke into the pocket of my jacket. Then, I leave the ticket booth. My two roommates keep on bickering and don’t even notice I’m gone. I need a bit of space right now. Alexanderplatz is my first destination. When a train enters the station, I hop on the trailer hitch of the last car. On my way to Schillingstrasse I try to clear my head. Lights are gliding past, the shaft is filled with warm air. The smell of metal, sweat, and urine prevails. At Schillingstrasse station the train is searched for stowaways. The security guy’s Alsatian starts barking at me, but five units of coke are enough to make his master happy. Dope, the only currency immune to inflation.

I emerge from the stuffy subway station and breathe in the fresh air that’s blowing through the high-rise canyons of Alexanderplatz, where modern times have definitely arrived. Electro cars roll by almost without a sound, so that you don’t hear them coming. It always takes me a while to get used to it. If I don’t watch out, I’ll get myself run over one of these days. Blessed be the roaring combustion engine, that’s all I can say.

The young crowd can hardly wait for the night to start. The Globals, that’s what the rich are called nowadays, have taken over the most coveted spots of this city and travel to the restaurants in chauffeured limos. Showing off their posh girlfriends, of course. On the weekends, the Suburbians, out for their weekly whiff of the scent of the great wide world, mingle with the party people. During the week they have to stick to a tight budget to be able to afford a night of pretending to belong. Waxing, peeling, tightening. Bodies buffed and smiles frozen in a temporary pretense of worldliness. Giving the friend in their company the stink eye, when he breaks out in a sweat once he realizes that he can’t possibly compete with the trustafarians. Then follows the overwhelming fear, as it dawns on him that it might be the last time he’s taking his arm candy for a stroll, before one of the Globals makes a go for her. And on the street corners homeless people bear silent witness to the luxury problems of others.

I go to a Shower & Sleep Store, rinse off the dirt and have my suit cleaned. These places also offer snooze cubicles for commuters, all lined up like honeycombs in a beehive. I call Anja and suggest dinner. She is her early twenties and a real looker. It takes her thirty minutes to get here by city train. When we say hello, I have to discipline myself not to be all over her straight away. We go to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a glassed in terraced café, soaring about 1000 feet up in the air. Premium seating, set on a steep angle. Private booths, too. Your view is drawn down like in a movie theater. The sunset over Grunewald replaces the silver screen, its luxury mansions white dots on the horizon. Most patrons ignore their attractive dates, staring through their data goggles instead. Processed reality. Meanwhile, the women, sunglasses on top of their hair, proceed to ogle the diamond display at the next table the old-fashioned way, which is using their own eyes. Quick, irritated looks are aimed at their not so affluent loser-boyfriends who can’t buy them expensive bling.