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[Big Maul] Channel Flipper (H 2.2, P 2.3)
At some point, I realize I'm heading to Sears, to check in with the Cabal. Fucken weirdos, but they somehow get good jingle to pay for some strange stuff. Should be amusing, at least, and I could use some of that.As you're walking to SEARS, this is playing over the Maul's speakers:
It's late morning, and The Breeze has died down, so the Dillards are out raiding. The No kids see you both, but they just wave. They're harassing Aveda for something.
The hallways to SEARS are wide, but there's trash piled up along the walls, from shopping carts to cardboard boxes and old machine parts that were just thrown down once they stopped working. It's a junkpile with a pathway now, like the folks of the Maul are hoarders and "in front of SEARS" is the dumping ground.
Comments
A long pause with just the creak and stomp and jingle of our walking.
"It's like Muzak has always been around, even since the Before time, but somehow when shit went down it changed like everything else. Like how they say in books and stuff that the Breeze used to be just wind and now it's more? Muzak used to be just these harmless little tunes the Maul was humming to itself I think, but After, it started protecting us without even knowing we were here. It was alone and asleep and dreaming of being alone."
I look at Playboy. "I know this must be frustrating, all these words to answer one short question and none of them quite... right. Best I can do."
"Anyway, when I tried to figure out what had gone wrong with Muzak, it occurred to me to just, why not, ask. I've always had a sense of things, been able to understand things that I shouldn't be able to just figure out. That time, I just sort of did it on purpose. And Muzak woke up and in the same second realized it wasn't alone and it just pounced on me out of instinct. You saw that."
"It wanted to communicate, wanted words and a way to interact with the world, so I put some shit together that seemed right and invited Muzak in. She answered the invitation, and I think now she's people in some sense. Songs've changed because she's exploring the options."
Sheepishly, I look to Playboy again, wondering if I'll ever really be able to explain this to anyone.
Willowy Banana Republic is standing around outside Sears. He's got his traditional yellow bandanna wrapped around his forehead and leans on his makeshift spear, which is a pair of sturdy kitchen knives lashed to an oar that's been whittled down a bit. He's a bit older than both of you, either of you, whatever. Scraggly beard, and hand-me-down-down jackets over his catcher's chestplate armor. He's smoking a hand-rolled cig that droops out of the side of his mouth, "Good day, lovelies. What brings you to Sears? Bidness or pleasure? Trade or work?" He winks at you, Hottopic, "Hotness, the gennies are good, much thanks."
Behind him there are a few folks at the entrance, sitting on old, worn canvas chairs picking through crates of stuff gathered from around places, looking for good things to use. They casually toss away that which they don't see as useful, small piles of new junk forming at their feet. They're unwashed, wearing garish colors of a mish-mash of various clothing, baubles and glitteries hanging off them, around their necks.
Nana shrugs, "Auntie's bitching about her miker-wave. A little screw loosen or somesuch. Bet you can get some slop trade for fixing what's ailing there."
He looks to you, Playboy, "Peace here, yeah? None o' ours will trouble you for words that you're peaceable. Give em and enter. Otherwise, stay out, big 'un. Capeesh?" He's not lowering a spear at you, Playboy, but there are maybe a dozen folks around with whatever passes for a hand weapon here, would be rough to kill them all. Plus, there's that juice they put on their blades.
"Wastes of flesh, PB. Don't give them words they don't deserve."
What do you do?
There are tents strewn about in haphazard fashion, shanties built into the concrete pillars and walls, a little ramshackle town here. All the people here are covered with trinkets and baubles, prizes from dumpster diving or "finds" they've taken or traded. And to a one, they're filthy.
Near the escalators is where Auntie Anne stays, in her big yurt, made up of a latticework of quilts and electric blankets and coats. There are no guards, nothing like that. Everyone knows you don't fuck with Auntie Anne.
As you both walk up to the yurt, there are dozens of eyes on you. The few children playing with the head of some doll like it's a soccer ball, they stop and stare. A couple men see you and follow you, "just in case".
From outside the yurt you smell soup. There's always some kind of food cooking at Auntie Anne's. It's permeated the fabric of the yurt, and it always smells like something in the Food Court, but fresher.
The main flap is thrown back, and inside you see Auntie Anne.
Right now, you see a woman lying on rugs in the center of the yurt, a worried older woman standing nearby while Auntie Anne is watching. The woman lying down is giving birth, and Auntie Anne is coaching the midwife through the process. As you both step inside, you catch the profile of the head crowning, and the mother is covered in sweat, crying and snotting on herself, gripping at the rug and pushing for all she's worth.
Auntie Anne sees you enter, and with a flick of her eyes, indicates a small booth to the side. It's more of a picnic table, really, but sanded down and polished, stained with a hundred different colors. This is where honored guests are served when Auntie Anne wants to feed them.
What do you do?
Auntie Anne moves forward to reach out and touch the small one, her finger across his lips, right under the nose. It's eyes pop open and it begins to squawl and cry, sputtering and moving in spasmic jerks, unused to this new world. The midwife brings the baby up to it's worn mother, and she works to quickly get the babe to latch onto her plump breast. Then, there is calm. The mother, her name is Trinket, her face slides from weariness to an incredible contentment as she gently touches the wet hair of her boy.
For a moment, Auntie Anne and the midwife chat, and then the older woman comes over to the table. She has her stick, Auntie Anne does, and she peers at each of you. "Hot. Play. Ow you two doin?" She flashes a genuine smile and ambles over to sit beside you, Playboy, resting lightly on the bench.
She pauses for a moment, looking over at the mother and babe. "Dat's some good shit dere, yea?" She looks up at both of you, "Ever wan kids?"
No one has ever asked me if I want kids before. I mean, I like kids, even the obnoxious ones like No Smoking, but... making one? Not answering, I wander over to the microwave, take a look.
And uncharacteristically verbose. "Not here; not in this fallen world though. It wouldn't be a kindness. We've got to live these lives we find ourselves in, but making new ones? That seems not quite just. But, even so, it's sorta nice to see this happening. It could almost give a person hope if they didn't know better."
Playboy, Auntie Anne doesn't move her hand off your thigh, and she smiles, "Play, I can see yer point, but choo got enough brains to make tings bettah, yea? Mebbe you raise a strong girl like yaself, an next genration be in bettah straights. If we all stop 'avin babes, den the world's sure done."
Looking at Playboy, interested in her reaction.
The new mother is singing a soft little song to her baby. Playboy, it sounds familiar, like really familiar. Something a woman sang to you as a child. What's the song?
Auntie Anne looks back over at you, Playboy, "Sometin new? Dat's souns fresh. Choo got an idea wot? An if dere's no ope, den wot is dere, yea?"
The mid-wife is busy arranging the viscera left from the birth, places it into a bowl. She brings a small amount to the mother, but she shakes her head no, refusing it while singing to her boy. The mid-wife brings the bowl to set it on the table by Auntie Anne.
Anne looks to both of you, "Dis good eatin. Don taste so great, but make you strong, give ya some sight inta da other." She gestures to the bowl, the placenta, "Choo wan some?"
What do you do?
I reach into the dented steel bowl almost absently, finger the placenta between thumb and forefinger before I look at it. "Looks like a sack of liver." And then I pull it up to my face and take a bite, chewing it slowly and noticing the texture.
"Be better cooked. Maybe kebobs."
I'm imagining everyone here broken and bleeding out now. It's a thing and it makes me uncomfortable. So I turn to Hottopic, "you owe me an introduction, yeah?"
Wave of the hand, and I'm back out in the rubbish-strewn sprawl of the store.
Auntie Anne gives a casual nod when you take the microwave, then she chuckles at you, Playboy, as you're leaving. "Ave yer own kids, Play, an you can fricasee da shit." She cackles some laughter and takes a piece from the bowl for herself.
Headed back to the shop? Anywhere else to stop on the way?