A Simple Product
by Suz suzvoy@tesco.net

Disclaimer - ABC own them, yadda yadda. No profit, yadda yadda.

*

So, imagine if you will - if you're capable, if your mind hasn't been so utterly numbed or destroyed by the thudding, pounding images of violence, shopping channels, and boy bands that are thrust into our daily lives with a frequency that is as obscene as it is worrying...

So imagine, if you can, a man. No different from any other. A human, an ape, a simple product of amino acids joining to form proteins and so on and so on...

A man who is quite capable of intelligent conversation, of feeling, of thinking, hearing, tasting and touching, and turning whatever actual details he has deducted into his own - some would say twisted - perception of them.

He is quite capable of saying, "Yes. This is life as I see it. This is the way the Universe is constructed." Religion, love, sex, emotion...all of these should mean nothing because he understands life. Every iota of it, and with that deconstruction comes the clarity of realisation.

That realisation being..?

Ah, you'll have to wait for that. You think I'm going to give you the answer so soon?

You see this man also enjoys using words. So much so in fact, that he'll take every opportunity he can to use words for as long as possible.

A man at a bar, nursing a drink. He can't quite remember which number drink it is, but he knows he's into double figures.

For the first time that night - or day, it could be the day but he's not sure - he doesn't gulp the drink down in one go. What does he do?

He stares into the glass, studying the contents, peering over the edge of his own not-insubstantial nose. Trying to ignore the obviously inebriated woman flirting with him who will no doubt be mortified by her behaviour when she sobers up.

Wondering about recent events.

Not about life; he understands life.

Just...pondering recent events. Or not so recent events.

What has brought him to this moment, really? Something from his childhood? A suppressed memory of a little boy that he has no knowledge of but perhaps, subconsciously, he is aware of that memory, of what it shows and how it effects every single choice he makes?

Or perhaps it's the loss of his best friend. A bank robbery interrupted by chance that - although it gained him his gold badge - took the sacrifice of his best friend as the price. An eye for an eye. His friend, for his badge.

It could be the latest in a long string of relationship disasters. Involvement with women who are either too intelligent or too stupid to know better. Of course he should warn them, should tell them what to expect, but he doesn't know any better himself.

A contradiction of an earlier statement? As is the way of the ape.

Is it simply the culmination of everything that has happened so far? No one event is directly responsible, but every single seemingly insignificant action has caused this, added another small piece to the mosaic.

Having a sandwich for lunch. Getting a particular haircut. If instead of wearing the blue shirt one day, he had worn the white, would that have made a difference? Or none at all?

Should he have had a dog instead of a cat? Should he have turned right or left? Should he have brushed his teeth with a different brand of toothpaste?

He knew the decisions he'd made were bad ones; how could he not? If he had no ethics, no way to differentiate between right and wrong, why would he be questioning himself with the instinctive knowledge that what he was doing was wrong?

And if he knew it was wrong, why did he do it anyway?

Emptying the glass in his hands, he stuck his fingers inside and dragged out the last few remnants. Licking his fingertips, he lowered the glass and waited as the bartender silently refilled it.

"Denby,"

The man - Denby, never anything other than just 'Denby' - turned to the person who wanted his attention. It was who he was expecting, of course.

His visitor just nodded and smirked, knowing he'd seen him. "Ready?"

The man - Denby, just Denby - moved, and with hands that weren't shaking and fingers he didn't recognise, picked up the glass and swallowed the contents quickly. Hissing, he brought the glass back down to the counter, and tried to study his visitor.

"Ready," was all he said.

*

The plan never changed, not once. They'd always had contingency plans to fall back on - or rather, that was what Don called them, Denby had known from the start that of course they'd be discovered - so nothing had to be altered really. Slightly different movements perhaps, but that was all.

Not even for you. Not even for you. Extensions were made for you, but no changes. The one factor that he wasn't able to predict. When he talked to you he knew, he knew how to burrow under your skin like a particularly irritating insect, but before...he had no comprehension.

You turned out to be a blessing. Do you know how long it's been since he's met anyone he truly felt a kinship with, someone who could challenge him? You, my dear Diane, are just like him. You just made different choices.

So much in common. You'd die for your friends, and he wanted to die by your hands.

He was quite disappointed when you didn't do it, by the way.

Ah, but he had great fun along the way! When you were talking your responses were so alive, so much fun, gave him such an opportunity for creativity. You kept him awake for hours. He would stare at the ceiling, wondering what you'd say to him next time so he could pre-plan everything he was going to respond with.

Sticks and stones...are sticks and stones. Words are deadly, the ultimate form of weaponry.

He knew how to use them, because he understands life.

Just as he understood that they would be caught. There was no chance that they wouldn't be, no way to escape despite Don's assurances. He didn't need Don's assurances, because there was no point in not being caught.

So why did he do it?

The words, Diane. He couldn't escape them. Control, as you know, is a rare thing. They were something he was always the master of.

He sits here now, in the corner of a room with only one piece of furniture, wearing a white gown over his sweaty, clammy body, using the words again. Composing a mental letter that you'll never read because he has nothing to write with or on. He murmurs to himself occasionally, screams often, pushes his body against the wall as hard as he can to try and escape, even though the very idea that he'll be able to go through the wall is absolutely incredulous.

Still he uses the words.

Life is nothing. He understands life, every aspect of it, because life is nothing.

He knows life.

Ergo, he knows nothing.

Ah Diane, you provided him with some genuine emotion. And as he weeps and drives his own fingernails into his palms, he hopes you know that.

~FINIS

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