‘Been thinking’ said the old man called friend sat opposite Jimmy. Jimmy hadn’t clocked his entrance, he was too immersed in his readings. Still Eliezer was a friend, perhaps his only one left. The kindly old man continued without mumbled response: ‘Well seems to me that things are sort of falling apart Mr Jimmy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘See the City is grumbling, guess it always has been but more than usual I guess. Ain’t too much food about or nothing. People is getting starved.’

  ‘They’re always complaining about food. Ain’t it just that if they worked a little harder then they’d have all the victuals they need?’

  ‘Aye, maybe. Just, well, people sees what they see and they reckons that up in the Eerie there’s food bountiful.’

  ‘Deserved plenty Eliezer. We get what we get because we deserve it. How them plebs going to run themselves? Who you think keeps them fly carts running and the cogs oiled? We are the linchpin that holds this whole fucked cesspit together so shouldn’t it be just so?’

  ‘Yes, I see, I get your point old friend. Still,’ Eliezer’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as he glanced to and fro. ‘You see, I’m beginning to wonder exactly what it is that the Ministry does. What good I mean? They take taxes, they police the activities of the common folk’

  ‘Squibs,’ Jimmy corrected.

  ‘Sure yeah, squibs. Just seems to me that the trade is fucked. What do the squibs get in return? Houses are falling down.’

  ‘Houses? Why do them fuckers care about houses? They don’t own this land and they don’t own the shit heaps that sit on top of it. What? Did they build them? Did they build this city? NO! It was us. The families of the Eerie that built the city and we let them live out their shitty lives in it. They should be fucking grateful Eliezer.’ Woo, ain’t Jimmy getting worked up?

  Eliezer. was getting a bit skittish, he knew that the ice was thin, still, he had something to say. ‘It’s just the Ministry Jimmy. People ain’t allowed to live their lives. If they say the wrong things to the wrong people. Art as well. everything has to be monitored and heaven forbid if someone at the Ministry takes a disliking to it. Good way to get yourself flung to the Delve and left to rot.’

  Jimmy was getting angry. He din’t see why change was necessary. Squibs were born squibs and they were sure as shit going to stay that way. Poverty and shittiness was in their blood. Ain’t nothing to do with Jimmy, no siree bob. With his tenuous grip on society in the Eerie to worry about it wasn’t in him to care nothing about less than human squibs. Let them carry on working and eating and shitting and fucking, weren’t that just like being free?

  Still, Jimmy held off. Din’t let none of the vitriol seep out of him like puss from wound. Just grit and bare it. He talked with Eliezer. for a long time, candles burning low. Smoke after smoke, until Eliezer. stood to take his leave. Jimmy saw his wrinkled, old friend out of the church and into the streets of Lux.

  On his return he took his time. Wandering through the church, stopping to read much neglected inscriptions under religious sculpture. Here Saint Jimmy, there the Great Ziggy, them large gods in a sea of small ones. He remembered faith and wished for it back. He, eventually, made it back to the office. He organized his papers, stuffed them into a knapsack and left the church. Back into the dirty streets.

  His ravaged internal organs pleaded rest. The dull ache severing, momentarily, critical thought. Jimmy reached into much loved and used robe and withdrew a quart of Voddy. Straight down the hatch, eyes watering and intense fiery heat in otherwise empty stomach. Always the glug, the nip, the swallow. Always gotta keep oiled man.

  He swung into a waiting fly cart. The operator looked at him expectantly. Jimmy offered him the finger. Perfectly manicured nail, painted purple. That single digit, yes sir, that means ‘fuck you’ squibby shit. The operator took a proper look at Jimmy and realised his mistake. Jimmy weren’t of his folk. This one rides for free.

  The fly cart took him to the open cradle of Terwall station. Again those most awful of crowds. Rubbing and bumping their dirty frames into Jimmy. Revolted, he headed to the west of the station until he reached the Ministry.

  The Ministry of Misanthropy. Built into Terwall Station itself. It was sprawling rectangular building. One of the few in Lux that was made entirely of brick and hewn stone. It towered above Jimmy for, an unheard of, 30 stories. People had taken to calling it a ‘Sky Scraper’ whatever the fuck that meant. Shit, weren’t the ‘sky’ just myth? There weren’t no sky, just roof.

  Above the monolithic arched entrance was the neon lighted sign. Glowing with vibrantly coloured stink gas. Sometimes purple, sometimes red. The massive letters spelling out its name and below that its purpose: ‘FOR THE PROTECTION AND ADVANCEMENT OF SOCIETY’. Bullshit term everyone knew, yet, fuck it. It kept everyone in step. How were them squibby shits going to manage anything with such peanut heads? Jimmy asked himself.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Queen Lyn Wyre had commissioned the building forty years previously - when the Ministry was an ill-organised rabble of aristocratic Eerie types. Now, it was a complex ecosystem in its own right. Over 50 departments and 1000s of employees all working towards the same, unending, end of maintaining law and order.

  The genius of the Ministry was that it, exclusively, owned the various machines needed to produce any art or mass publication within Lux. Music recording studios, the printing press, cameras and other technology. The operatives of which were heavily monitored by their superiors and their superiors above them. It was a closed system... Want to be an artist? A writer? An actor? A musician? Join the wagon matey, tow the line fucker.

  The ruling class and Queen Lyn Wyre had the god damn monopoly on all ‘art’, squibs responded well... take the fucking culture from under their blackish, shit covered feet and capacity for collective thought was diminished. Rebellions were unheard of, hence the Queen’s over-long reign.

  Jimmy knew about people like Mr Jangle and the like. Weren’t a pissing secret. The Queen herself ruled to let the Grub Street Hacks continue their, almost certainly not, clandestine publications. Why? Jimmy knew... Ain’t nothing... clever really. Them Hacks wrote shit that made the upper class look daft at worst. The few literate proles which actually read the filth would spend their hours laughing at the stories and would relay them to the less sophisticated rabble who would, in turn, laugh some more. In that cycle of coughing, hacking, diseased lunged titillation everyone forgot to be angry, they stopped grumbling and started laughing. No revolution was ever born from a joke. Stupid, shitty, fucking plebs. It was a joke in and of itself. Something like irony or something.

  It reminded Jimmy of Eliezer. Something had to be done. That unsettling conversation was too, well, serious for his bland liking. Time to dob that wankstain in and let the Ministry shove something spiky up his arse or whatever they did. Jimmy was losing a friend. Boo Hoo Jimmy Choo, Boo Hoo. Ain’t no loyalty except that for you. Wouldn’t suit Jimmy one bit having the Eerie questioned like that. Eliezer would talk and give names and then they’d be arrested and the squibs would be scared for a little bit until some other Hack would write some crass nonsense and then the squibs would laugh again and, most importantly, forget. The cycle man, keeps them cogs oiled, the gears moving and it suited Jimmy just fine. Keep them scared and keep them amused... nothing more, nothing less.

  Jimmy ducked into the Ministry. The huge, marble floored, vestibule opening before him. Multitudes of people skittered here and there. Half-men and women. Not exactly squibs but definitely not an Eerie dweller. It made Jimmy feel a little uneasy. Shit, ain’t this just his job though?

  Jimmy traipsed through the crowd. Shit, don’t be getting in my way. People knew him and knew that if they got in his way there would be more than hell to pay for. At the back of the lobby were the elevators. Jimmy stepped into one of the cannisters and shot off up and up and up. The 28th floor, ding dong, Jimmy’s here, hello.

  Jimmy sat down at his absurdly clean and spit shiny desk - thoughts of the dusty, mess covered church, shit... this ain’t home - God, them bills though - ain’t no one going to pay for shit, especially not his long fucking, earthed family. All dead, dusty and dry. Balls... gotta get on Mr B. The Jimmy, the He.

  A many dialled mixing desk sat in front of him. Various knobs perched on-top of meticulously oiled wood. A long familiar, curly cord. Head phones perched on head. Sip, nip, glug, vodka, go. Work, work, work. Jimmy listened to song after song after song. Making copious notes. Scribble, dribble. Head a’wander, this ain’t life man, still them wheels keep rolling. All the music was clinical anyway, just normal slippy slap. Them fast drums, that heavy guitar, clicky clack, jingle, jangle, fandango, let’s go. Nothing that needed censoring. People knew better than that din’t they? Weren’t it just like Jimmy to have such a boring job? Quality assurance. Make sure nothing that could damage the status quo could leak through.

  Blah fucking....

  Blah.....

  Almost, shit,

  Tired, a puff of not normal air;

  Those drinks, that late night, the mystic, mystifying, dreamland... fragrant, astral, brilliant.

  Eyes slip shut. The music rolls on, clickedy clack...

  And in the deep rolls of ‘not here’ Jimmy listened to something new. Something, not quite, well, you know... It was happening, yeah man, shit’s cool. Just weren’t exactly something that the Queen would approve of. Hidden under the music was a whisper man, something of a something. A whisper of freedom, of another life, a way of being that was better. Whispers of DeeDee the FreeFree. If Jimmy was awake he may have spotted it. May have travelled down that railway and reached the otherside. But nope. Fell on dead fucking ears it did.

  Time squealed away. Jimmy sat at his desk, chin down, head cradled in arms, dreaming of that church, the quiet dust. A loud fucking bang. Smack attack. Jimmy awoke with a start, hearing the offending noise over the offal music in his ears. Some shit hole, bastard was knocking at his door. A button pressed, music stopped. Jimmy darted to the door. Headphones still perched on head. Cord taught. Jimmy flat on his arse.

  Puffy, red raging face. Angry, putrid, vitriol. Door open. ’What the fuck do you want?’

  A white frocked, thin, sallow man with greasy hair combed immaculately to the side. He was wearing spotless black gloves. Jimmy tried to swallow his anger. Tried and tried. It boiled within him. He gave smiling a go with limited success. ‘Mr Treggers, good day.’

  A curt nod, ‘Mr B’ he replied as he strolled into the control room. ‘I am here to pick up today’s records.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. Sure.’ Jimmy grabbed the vinyl disks and shoved them into Mr Tregger’s overly clean gloves. God be shit on, Jimmy hated being polite to this particular fuck nugget. Still, a job is a job... Gotta keep the green keen man. ‘All checked and qualified.’ said Jimmy as he hastily slammed a red inked stamp on stray papers littering his desk.

  ‘Yes. Quite. I’ll be back tomorrow.’ The impersonal man turned tails and stalked from the room leaving Jimmy to vent rage alone. He knew nothing of that heretical whisper. He knew not that cradled in Mr Tregger’s arms was a record that contained the seeds of revolution. Din’t fucking know... The Punk Rock Pagoda had spoken, Jimmy hadn’t listened.