Monday, March 28, 2022

Microstory 1851: Transitivity

I would get in a lot of fights growing up. I was one of those kids who hated to see injustice, and also who saw injustices everywhere. Bullies, racists, bad boyfriends. If I found out you treated someone poorly, you were going down. Back then, I thought I was lucky to be going to a school that didn’t have the time or energy to deal with someone like me. Sure, I was violent and disruptive, but the teachers and staff had to prioritize disciplining the ones who were the actual bad guys. I’m talking about the bullies I was standing up to, and the kids who came to school with weapons. I managed to skate by, which looking back, did me a disservice, because I struggled to learn basic social skills. It’s not like I grew out of it just because I graduated from high school. I just kept fighting the injustices, and in the real world, people do care about that, and they make the time to punish you for it. I went to jail so many times. If I had had different parents, they probably would have sent me to military school, or something, but they never wanted kids, and that didn’t change when they met me. Since they didn’t care about what happened to me, or even their family reputation, they never bailed me out, so as long as I kept them out of it, they didn’t worry about the jail time. Eventually, the cops remembered who I was, so they knew they couldn’t keep me in the same cells as other people. Jail, and the police station holding cells, were great places to find people who I felt needed to be taught a few lessons. One night, I got in another bar fight—with a guy who just couldn’t take the hint that the lady wasn’t interested—and I learned where the jurisdictional borders were. I was taken to a police station I had never been to before.

They put me in with the general population, where I managed to encounter a rapist who kept getting away with it. The only thing my daddy ever taught me was to never pick a fight with anyone I couldn’t beat. I usually remembered this advice, but not that night. He beat me half to death, and left me in the corner of the cell, next to a drunkard who just so happened to own a boxing gym. He decided I needed someone to teach me how to channel my instincts into something productive. You’ve heard this story before, so I won’t bore you with the details, but yes, he trained me to be a better fighter, but to do it for money and honor, rather than anger. I guess someone important took notice, because that is not even the most interesting part about my life. I found myself being recruited by a mysterious group with rather unclear intentions. They said that a war was raging on other worlds, and that they needed fighters like me. I was hesitant, but curious. It sounded too crazy for me to just walk away from. I couldn’t just forget about it. They put me on this giant spaceship that looked like a train, and said they were taking me to another universe. I ended up fighting in something called the Transit Army, against an alien race who was trying to sterilize billions and billions of people across the multiverse. Again, I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve seen them, I fought them, it happened. I was basically in the infantry on the front lines, because I didn’t have any education, or leadership skills. This is what killed me. The enemy served a fatal blow, and the doctors said they couldn’t save me. My only request was to be returned to my home world. They said they didn’t have the resources, but an individual capable of crossing over himself took pity on me, so here I am, taking my final breaths in the alley behind the gym. I’m laughing, because I know the cops will never solve my murder.

No comments :

Post a Comment