V is for Vendetta; or Vignettes

The man walked elegantly down the aisle of the office suite, brandishing his suitcase in his right hand. His colleagues uttered the same dull greeting upon passing him, they too grasped suitcases and dressed in the same ugly gray colors. His two steely eyes laid a solid and firm gaze upon the doors of the meeting room, ready to greet others with the same cold and blank stare accompanied with a swift handshake. The meeting room was filled with other men; same boring and ugly suits; same hairstyles; suitcases in their right hand; cigars pumping smoke out through their mouths. “Goodmorning, Patrick,” one uttered, extending his hand for a handshake. The man identified as Patrick with his teeth clenched in a smile filled with loathing and spite, returned the handshake and responded with the same greeting. The pair exchanged smiles that hid their everlasting desire to besiege each other’s reputation and top them by any means necessary; whether it meant in power, style, or money. The men gathered around a dark coloured table, accompanied by dark coloured chairs. With their identical cigars pressed between their lips, they engaged in small talk. Patrick placed a business card on the table, featuring his name printed in thin black letters and a stylistic font. Patrick Bateman, Vice President. “New card. It’s Times New Roman. Whaddaya think?” The men let out their synthetic expressions of approval. Another man at the table produced a business card from the confines of his pockets. Placing it down on the table beside Patrick’s, he motioned for the others to examine it and to provide their commentary. In a thick black lettering, the card read Ted Perowski, Vice President. “It’s in bold. Whaddaya think?” The men nodded their approval in unison, proceeding to display the same smile. Some picked up Ted’s card and pushed away Patrick’s. Patrick sat forward into the table, smiling. A hand went up to caress his chin, his contempt hidden well beneath his forged smile. I can’t believe they prefer his card over mine. It’s obvious mine is superior. “Let’s see Paul Allen’s card.” Patrick states firmly. Paul produces his card and places it beside Patrick’s. Paul Allen, Vice President. Picking up the card, Patrick peered at it closely with a scrutinizing gaze. He was no longer able to hide his contempt. The thickness of it. Oh my god. It’s even got a gold lettering. Patrick dropped the card from his now clenched fist, anger pulsing through his veins. Tomorrow was when he would go to change his business cards’ lettering to gold.


“I am doing this for my family. I am doing this because it is all I have left in my six months,” A man, dressed in red, sat stalemated in an argument with a woman seated on the bed. He gently argued with her, maintaining a sense of calm and composure to attempt a chance at ceasing the discussion of the topic.  “What is wrong with you?” The question rang through the room and filled the air with its deafening aurora. “You can’t keep doing this, Walt,” the woman cried. “You need to stop. You’ve already hurt so many people with what you do. You’re going to hurt yourself or one of us. Just admit you’re in danger.” The man dressed in red slowly craned his head to reveal a face written with offense all over. He tore off his red jacket to reveal the darker colored maroon red shirt that lay beneath. The offense that lay on his face quickly transformed into anger; familiarly evident and quick like the chemical reactions created. Fuming, he announced, “I am not in danger,” His furious hand motions spoke with his clenched teeth. “You think a meth cook opens his door and gets killed, and you think that of me. No. You’re clearly wrong. You clearly don’t know who I am, so let me clue you in. I am not in danger. I am the danger, Another man in the meth business gets killed and you think that of me? I am the one who kills. I am the one who knocks,” He briefly interrupted his monologue with an almost confused expression. Shocked at his own outrageous outburst teeming with his ego, he realized his mistake of uttering such an abundance of evil words. He turned to exit the room, putting back on his jacket. The woman sat, paraylyzed equally by fear and surprise.


The loud clang of the door locking behind me distinctly filled the cold dry winter air. The unwelcoming and restrictive gate loomed over the horizon like a barrier obstructing creativity and freedom. Many beside me walked solemnly to rooms, their heads bowed in sadness and grief. The complaints and whines of many about the poor conditions rang like the sad vocal chords of a soon-to-be extinct bird. Wide and stubby figures filled the area, riding their carts carelessly and with their watchful eyes, ever so dauntingly, carefully peering over the crowd of many. Looking for any excuse to root out a person like weeds, they picked among those who did not conform to their strict standards and with an ugly grin on their fat flabby faces, dished out punishments for the most menial of infractions. An unnecessarily loud bell filled the air, motioning for the submissive and docile masses to switch rooms. Their solemn gloomy facial expressions said a thousand more words, more useful and expressive than any spoken in the rooms they were confined to. Old figures presiding over the classroom lurked over the many. With their minimal paycheck, maltreatment by their own administration, constant tiresomeness and stress, they spoke to the masses with sad unmotivated voices. They too seemed to be another casualty of society. Day by day felt like nothing but hell to everyone, within the facility. Excessive stress, work, and internal problems were the flavor of everyday life. Whilst the many thrived in such poor and uninhabitable conditions, a large building stood out from the sea of somber rooms and buildings. Its tall and large golden stature made it stand out from the rest of the facility. With all the funds gathered by those who were unfortunate and foolish enough to send their money, the Administrators bathed in luxury and riches. In large contrast to their inferior counterparts who were tasked with manning the smaller rooms, their paycheck reflected the hard work of everyone else. The taxes levied on the masses by them paid every debt and expense. Bathtubs filled with cash lined every room in the tall building and was constantly bathed in by an Administrator. Their laziness and disregard for everyone else was apparent; any issue brought upon by another would be simply ignored, as they would slam their doors and return to bathing in bullion. Where money and riches are so prevalent, those inhabiting the building even went to the extent of utilizing paper money as means to finish their bathroom business. As mandated by the propaganda company, it was mandated that the masses digest content regarding the Administrators. Pictures, videos, and books were documented to display to the world of their godlike qualities. Everyone was mandated by law to recite a poem praising the Administrators, who were crowned as divine rulers. Any who refused would be placed in a room, forced to spend time to reflect their atrocious and harmful act of disrespect towards the Administrators. Along with those punished were many who spoke out against them. It was rumored that one who made a satirical lighthearted joke on his English assignment criticizing the Administration was hunted down and punished severely before he was able to finish his assig


The dull, everlasting flavor of emptiness was evident in the air. Shuffling my feet to the music that echoed throughout my ears brought more interest and joy than there had ever been this entire week. With my eyes glued to my brand new shoes, I continued my journey down the sidewalk. In a sudden motion, the earbuds that delivered such a melody were ripped out of my ears in the most degrading manner. I turned to face the aggressor; his face clenched in a stiff and prosthetic smile. On his baseball cap was etched the ugly name of John. Even more of an eyesore were his shoes; marked at an expensive price of some hundred dollars; something I always fathomed of even being allowed to lay my eyes upon. Several of his accompaniments gathered around, their dull smiles filling their faces. With jeering attitudes, they all simultaneously turned their baseball cap-donning heads toward me. “What’re you listening to, punk?” John held the earbuds to his ears before tossing them onto the floor and smashing them with the sole of his expensive shoes. “Your music’s garbage.” he remarked, his accomplices echoing the same in unison. They all uttered dry laughs, ever so haunting in their matched tones that seemed to have been rehearsed thousands of times to fit. With the continuation of the insults of my shoes, The group of Johns walked away, their bodies swaying in unison, strides identical to one another. With the distraction of music missing from me, I turned to look all around me. So many other Johns and Johnettes in ugly baseball caps and ugly shoes and ugly voices and ugly strides; they all walked around me, their conforming shadows etched in the distance. Shadows that I seemed to have never noticed before. Just shadows.


Our home isn’t too poor. It’s not too rich either. There are certainly no outstanding features about it, as it mirrors almost most of the other homes on the street. The walls were engulfed with a tan color with large windows that punched through its walls. Beds of flowers and a wide assortment of plants lined the walls bordering the other houses. Any person who would pass by would remark the neighborhood as affluent; given that they were descendants of a poorer family. Those who directly contrasted them with large sums of money could say quite the opposite of our home. We didn’t seem to pay attention to where we lived or how we lived. If it was our home, it would be our home. Nothing could replace our home. Home isn’t defined by how wealthy or rich it was; nor was it defined by its location or status. Home was just home; a place where we cherished. It was the feeling that arose in your heart in the aftermath of returning after a long vacation. It was the yearning to hug the floors and walls after having a long, restless, and boring day. Home is home. Home, sweet home.

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