Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Morgan didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t handle anger well.

He kept his head down as he found the canned goods aisle. He only knew where he was because “CANS” was spray-painted in black across the dirty floor. There were hardly any cans there—and most of those were empty. The ones that were full had grime on them, but grime could be washed. The important thing was to make sure they were sealed. He picked up a can and checked it. It seemed okay. He put it in his basket.

He turned down the long aisle of empty containers and busted cans to a vicious scream. A woman was shoved. She took a rack of toothpaste with her to the floor. Two associates stood over her. A third was on the way.

“Maybe she has a permit for free tuna nobody told me about?” one of the associates asked the other.

“She doesn’t seem to have it on her,” the other replied. “Maybe we should speak to the manager.”

The woman stumbled to her knees. Her emotional pleas sounded like a drawn-out squeal. “I just wanted to see if it would fit in my pocket when I went home…”

The closest associate struck her across the face with a closed fist. The associate last to arrive closed in on her. The others followed. “Let’s find out if it fits.”

The basket fell from Morgan’s hand. He grabbed his head and chanted to himself, “We’re not in Chicago, we’re not in Chicago…” He held on tighter and chanted louder and faster, pushing the sounds out of his head. Something heavy fell. “We’re not in Chicago we’re not in Chicago we’re not in Chicago we’re not in Chicago…”

When he stopped, there was silence. When he looked up, the aisle was empty. Just an overturned rack and rusty shelves of empty cans.

It didn’t take long for Morgan to finish his shopping, taking any full container he could find, perishable or not. He fit what he could into his basket and found the checkout lanes.

He made it to the counter. There was no line. The cashier was staring at him. He looked down.

Wait until you are instructed… his mother had warned.

“Let’s go,” the cashier tapped on the counter.

Morgan took the items out of the basket and stacked them on the counter as fast and as orderly as he could.

“So I can see them all,” the cashier demanded.

Morgan spread the items out at once. The cashier looked at them for a moment. Then he turned on his stool, looked at his computer. Morgan watched as he typed.

BOXES: 7

CANS: 4

BAGS: 3

“One-twenty,” said the cashier.

Morgan handed him six twenty-dollar bills.

“Return your basket to the courtesy counter.” The cashier stuffed the money into a drawer. “You’ll then be permitted to place your purchases into your clothing.” He slammed the drawer shut and looked coldly at Morgan. “Have a nice day.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Years ago, a man had told Morgan he was lucky.

His body trembled as he made his way home.

Power.

It’s a funny thing.

People look down on the people who desire it.

“Everybody wants it,” everybody says. “I’m looking for something better.”

Nobody ever stops and thinks about what power is anymore.

I was born forty years before the Hephaestus virus was noticed by the world. That makes me over a hundred and thirty years old. Impossible? Child, I’m a scientist—the kind that generals used to employ for secret experiments. I can push your DNA like overclocking a computer, if you even know what that means.

My name is Doctor Barnabas Vulcum. My nature is science; my science, nature. The world is my laboratory, and my variable is you.

It was I who made the Hephaestus virus.

Not that Hephaestus was ever very important, which I know must be hard for you to understand, but that’s because your mind is simple: it’s influenced by little more than headlines on papers and the leading story on the six o’clock news, all the prime-time specials and alerts interrupting my soaps.

No, the most important thing I ever did was realize who I am and what I want. When I did, I had the power to mold, shape and create on a scale you can’t imagine. But since you probably remain confined in the prison I put behind me long before you were even born, let me describe my passion in a manner you may understand…

Fucking the world.

When my team arrived at this city in the year 2010, we already had the foundation to send humanity down a bottomless whirlpool. But we began slow and very small.

Your empire imploded after a few short decades. You ran to your seven cubbyholes, bowing to the skylords of the East and of the West, to the host of Chicago.

Things changed too fast. Yet not fast enough.

Don’t you see? You pathetic fucks destroyed yourselves before I even had the chance. I hope you’re happy. But there were other things I set in motion, things I am too old to ever see. But when Harold takes over, you’ll see it. I just wish I could hold on a little longer to see it with you.

Would you like to know why I’m writing all this down—why a man as smart and crafty as I would openly confess these horrid crimes? I’ll tell you. And before you try and guess, it isn’t guilt.

In my hands, on this page, in these words that you will never know exist, is truth. It is closure to the madness you’ve suffered these past ninety-seven years—a piece of human history more important than the Gospel. And I produce it now so I can throw it in the fire and piss out the embers. Just like I did to the Constitution, to Gutenberg’s Bible, to the remnants of the Magna Carta, to every painting in France. Just like I did to you, to everything you were ever proud of.

But as I’ve said before, it was only the beginning.

You were lucky. You’ve only seen a fraction of my work, the things that I can make your body do. Your generation will never know that the reason your newborn slid into this world with its genitals in the right place is that I allowed it.

You’ve heard about the Wizard of Seattle. He lives in a magical tower far to the north of the Western Government. It was I who gave that man the right to call himself anything other than a dirty old man.

You think Chicago is so awful? How awful can it be? You created it, not I. And for the record, you’re not very creative.

Kansas City. Now that was art. The very sound of it should have you scrubbing your wife’s feces off the mattress.

But no. I chose Hephaestus instead. That was my greatest mistake.

Harold will rectify this in time.

All in good time.

Wanting power, truly wanting power, is not a common thing. Wanting protection is a common thing, wanting an escape, wanting pleasure, good sex. Power can provide these, it’s true. But when the soul yearns for power itself, the soul will find a way to take it.

Soon I will be gone, and Harold will take my place. You’ll like Harold, all of you. He’s special. He’ll screw you all far worse than Hephaestus ever could. And he’ll live far longer than I have.

So there it is—a historical milestone worthy of a showcase in the Library of Congress, or framed in any of the world’s most prestigious museums.

But my prostate’s acting up again so it’s time for a tinkle.

The anger didn’t hit him until he arrived home, and was pulling items from the LIM out of his pockets and into the cupboards of his building’s kitchen. It hit him hardest as he grabbed the can of tuna that the woman tried to steal before the associates took her. Or maybe she was telling them the truth. It didn’t matter. Whomever that food was intended for would probably starve.

This is how the world allowed itself to be for almost fifty years.