This is something I found in my old Drive, trawling through files and seeing if there’s anything worthwhile in the silt.
I wrote it a while ago at a writer’s conference, given the prompt of “the Pandemic.” You all know the one. This doesn’t fit into the Archive, broadly, but I still think it’s worth putting here. It’s still kinda relevant.
“Welcome.”
“This uh… this isn’t what I was expecting.”
“Well, the colonies have to have some paperwork, hey?”
“Yeah, I just didn’t expect to be so clean, for being the… a food plant..”
“Yes, yes, we get that a lot. Now, don’t worry. Everything will be fine. Now, please sign here, here, and uhh… here.”
“Why?”
“Why, instant death and-slash-or social-irresponsibility-resulting-in-death insurance. We need to have you covered. Also, if you could sign here to rent the lease for your grave--thank you--and here for the right to perish on company grounds, remember that in the case of non-payment of your grave you can be evicted, and yadda yadda, I’m sure you know.”
“I… don’t.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I’m sure you’ll get used to it all in time. We’ll look after your every need and want--after all, everything here is company-owned!”
“Thanks?”
“Fantastic. Welcome to the family. Here’s the keys to your quarters--alongside your bill--your first shift is at 3am.”
“But it’s 1 in the morning.”
“Yes.”
***
The TV above the conveyor belt turns on.
“Thank you for tuning into the News, your source for News. For today’s News, nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. College football is resuming tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
“Now we here at The News have been receiving reports of rumors of rampant employee death due to the Plague. This would be grievous, however, the number would be smaller if we simply did not pay attention. Furthermore, these deaths are less than the number of people in company property. Therefore, we should stop paying attention, and it is not a threat. The News will no longer be paying attention to the Plague.”
The TV turns off.
“Hey, you think we’d be contracting less of the Plague if we weren’t eating raw, unprocessed rats?”
“Probably.”
“Well I say,” another worker said, packing a live rat in a can. “I say it’s my right to eat raw, unprocessed rats.”
“But they’re literally giving you the Plague.”
The other worker coughs onto the rat. Nothing is wrong. “That no-rat-eating speak is propaganda, y’know?” He coughs again. In case you were concerned, nothing is wrong. “They’re trying to weaken the integrity of our company. Damn competitors.”
“But--” He coughs again. He’s fine, I promise. “Nevermind.”
The TV turns on again. The Boss is on.
“I would like to congratulate all the rat-packers for packing rats really good and fast, we pack rats faster and more good than any other company, markets are up, keep packing rats. We have a fresh shipment from Italy--Italian rats? Can you believe it? We treat our workers better than any other company. We only have the best rats. Also, we’re re-opening the rat ranch, don’t worry, the flea infestation is nothing to worry about it. My best spiritual advisor only tells me that they give a better crunch. We have the best rats. Good night, Profits bless.”
The workers cheer. One drops dead instantly.
I go on my snack break. It’s only rats. They only sell rats. I can only buy rats. It’s an all-rat economy.
I am sick.
I die.
I am evicted from my grave. They put another corpse in there. He is evicted. They plow the land to make another rat ranch. And a massive golden statue of The Boss. He is holding a rat.
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