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You Have Enough
This is a story I just finished writing. Enjoy!
You Have Enough
By Chase TheQueerXX
Content Warning – contains depictions of violence that may be triggering to some readers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
            I had been working for over twenty-one hours straight with no breaks in-between, and my briefs were ready to give out from being wetted more times than they were supposed to. It’s what I get for wearing absorbent underwear instead of straight-up diapers. At least I learned to live with no bathroom breaks, and by now I forgot how to go number one in the bathroom. Forgot, or fucked up my kidneys from trying to hold it in when I resisted the urge for the first few years I worked at my job.
            Black dots and lines floated across my eyes as I stared at endless spreadsheets on my computer. Twenty-one hours with no bathroom breaks or eating breaks, and I was still not done. My job was the job for an AI, but I’m grateful I cost less. The city installed nets below both my office window and my apartment window, so the day I’m replaced, my only option is to use my tie.
            I closed my eyes and imagined myself dangling from a ceiling fan by my tie. As I imagined it, my throat tightened and I became short of breath. I felt myself pulled into the air. I opened my eyes and saw my boss, Mr. Pottersom, had yanked me up by my tie. I tried to apologize to him, but I couldn’t say anything from being choked.
            My boss let go and I fell to the floor. My choked face fell near his polished leather shoes. I stood up but couldn’t bear facing him, so I stared back down at his shoes. I hope he doesn’t fire me.
            “What the hell, Matthew,” said Mr. Pottersom. “I can’t believe I caught you sleeping on the job. I thought you were better than that.”
            “I . . . I . . .” I tried to tell him I’m sorry, but my voice went numb.
            “You have enough,” said Mr. Pottersom, “and this is what you have to show for it? Look, your shift ended an hour ago and I’m not paying you overtime. I don’t know when you went to sleep, so I’m deducting an entire day’s pay. Go home.” He pinched his nose. “Ugh, yuck. It smells like you wet your diaper too many times. If you leaked onto your chair, I’m deducting the replacement out of your paycheck.”
            I scurried away from him. I went to the locker room that the warehouse workers used. I didn’t have a locker like the hard hats did but I at least had a change of clothes. I stripped my clothes off. Just as I had suspected, I went too many times. I had been trying to train my urination as well as my BMs by only drinking water at specific times, so the only thing I can think of that did it was the coffee. I don’t know how I can time my coffee, it’s the only way I can work a twenty-hour shift.
            I put on a pair of underwear no male under the age of thirty should wear, and stared at myself in the locker room mirror. My face had become sunken. The bags under my eyes were larger than that of a raccoon. I had starved myself to the point where my ribs showed. I looked like a ghoul-like creature. I looked away from the mirror and went to my bag. My bones cracked with every movement. As I unzipped my bag, I heard the groaning and wheezing of the hard hats enter the locker room. Their sixteen-hour shift must have ended, lucky bastards.
            Some of them glared at me. The hard hats think us folks in the office have it so good. Most of them though just rolled their eyes and pretended I wasn’t there. I went back to getting dressed.
            “Hi,” said a voice.
            I looked up from my bag to see one of the hard hats looking at me. He sort of looked like my boss who was in his forties, but he was a worker, so he’s probably my age, twenties, maybe thirties. Of course, he’s much fatter than my boss. The bastard probably has more time to eat during the eight hours of the day he has off. “Hi,” I said.
            “Are you new here?” he asked.
            “No,” I said. “I’m one of the office drones. I pissed my diaper too many times so I had to clean myself up and change.”
            “Why don’t you just piss in a bottle?” he asked. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”
            “I can’t,” I said, “I kind of ruined my bladder by being stubborn the first couple of years I started. Besides, there’s too many women in the office.”
            “I’m sure they must be in the same boat as you,” he said. “The women in the warehouse don’t bat an eye.”
            “Well,” I said, “in the office, they’re not allowed either. Except for Mrs. Tilda, she’s a V.P.”
            “The veeps piss in bottles?” asked the hard hat.
            “Ugh, no” I said, “I meant the V.P.s are allowed to use the bathroom. Look, why are you talking to me?”
            “Just trying to be friendly,” he said. “Just because you’re an office boy and I’m a hard hat doesn’t mean we can’t get along. I’m Dale, you?”
            “Matthew,” I said.
            As I slipped on my trousers, he asked “So is that why it’s hard to find underwear that’s not padded nowadays? They want us to piss and shit in diapers instead of bottles?”
            This guy was starting to irritate me. “Look Dale, it would help me out a lot if would you just pretend it’s normal underwear. And I don’t shit in them, at least not most of the time, and I don’t know what they you’re talking about. What I do know is that, unlike you, I only have four hours to the day off. With the time it takes me to walk home, eat, and shit in the toilet if I could hold it in, I’m only left with two hours of sleep. And now, because of you, it’s looking like I only am going to get one hour of sleep tonight, thanks.”
            “Jeez,” said Dale, “sorry buddy. If you want, you can sleep at my place. It’s only down the street.”
            “No. I don’t want to sleep at . . . only down the street? Well, okay, if it’s not a problem with you.”
            I don’t want to sleep at some ungrateful hard hats apartment, but at the same time, I want to at least get my two hours of sleep tonight. We both finished getting dressed and I followed him outside.
            The outside was sweltering. A swarm of drones flew over us, giving us a short gust of shade, before leaving us back under the roasting hot Arctic sun. As I walked down the street, an egg splashed into my shoulder. I stumbled back in shock, but Dale caught me before I could fall down. I looked over Dale’s shoulder to see the culprit – a group of college students with picket signs.
            The students looked their age, no premature wrinkles, balding, or grey hairs, they were probably members of the upper class. Maybe they went to Bizus University, or Misk Institute of Technology, someplace expensive like that. Their signs read YOU HAVE ENOUGH.
            “Fucking rich, spoiled brats,” said Dale. He spat on the ground and pulled me forward.
            Just like he said, his apartment was just down the street, although with my emaciated legs, it felt like a marathon. If Mr. Pottersom didn’t deduct my paycheck, I would have called a taxi pod. Of course, Dale looked like he needed the walk. I don’t know how his legs got so chubby when he was supposed to be doing blue collar work sixteen hours a day. Maybe he worked the forklift or something.
            His apartment had a slide glass door that opened onto a balcony, making it sunny inside. Thankfully he had some blinders that could be pulled down. I heard a boat’s horn and went to the balcony. The balcony overlooked a canal. Going down the canal was a massive yacht.
            My jaw dropped at the sight of it. The yacht was larger than Dale’s apartment building, which was a high rise. The yacht had Olympic sized swimming pools and hot tubs on the decks, with all sorts of luxurious looking cabanas, hammocks, couches, everything. To call it a house on water was an egregious understatement. To call it a mansion on water was still a massive understatement. It was a palace on water.
            “That looks like Mr. Bizus’s yacht,” said Dale. “It looks like he’s headed towards the Arctic Ocean. Probably so he can go cool off at the North Pole.”
            “Fuck,” I said. “I’d kill just to swim in the North Pole, never mind go there on . . . that. My God, can you imagine?”
            “I can,” said Dale. “Now take off your clothes.”
            “WHAT?” I backed away from Dale until my back tapped into the balcony’s railing. The light bump made me scream in pain, years of sitting hunched over will do that to you.
            “Are you okay?” asked Dale.
            “Why do you want me to take off my clothes?”
            “So they can be washed,” said Dale. “The egg from that fuckface elite, remember?”
            “Oh, right.” I went inside and Dale shut the door behind me. He slid the blinders shut and I stripped down to my diaper that was pathetically made to resemble a plain pair of cotton briefs, complete with a fly and elastic waistband, as if that spared my dignity.
            “You can sleep on the futon,” said Dale, “it’s comfier than my bed, trust me.”
            I sat down on a futon that was scrunched against the wall. Dale handed me a blanket, and I asked him: “Hey, Dale, mind if I use some of your sleeping pills? I’ll give you some of mine as payback.”
            “I don’t have sleeping pills,” said Dale. “You have trouble going to sleep? How does that happen when you go at least twenty hours a day without sleep?”
            “They’re not to help me fall asleep faster,” I said. “Believe me. In fact, Mr. Pottersom caught me resting my eyes before I left. Even though my shift was over he docked an entire day’s pay. No. My pills are to help me get by with just two hours of sleep a day.”
            “Holy fucking hell,” said Dale, “I don’t know where to start. Jesus. Now I’m definitely joining the gang tomorrow.”
            I fell over onto the futon. My heartbeat pained my chest. I need sleep, and I need it now. “Please Dale, please. Pills, I need my pills. It’s called Quicksleep, I . . . I . . .”
            “It’s clearly not working,” said Dale. “You’re eyes are so heavy you look like a raccoon. Take the day off tomorrow and sleep for as long as it takes for you to recover.”
            “No,” I said. I tried to sit up, but I didn’t have the strength. “I c-c-can’t. I’ll get f-fired.”
            “No you won’t,” said Dale. He tossed the blanket over me. “Me and all the other hard hats are striking tomorrow. Them rich kids are gonna see a real protest. We’re not letting anyone cross the line.”
            “No,” I said, “you can’t do that. “You have enough. I have enough. You can’t . . .” My eyelids sealed shut. I didn’t have the strength to open them. I haven’t slept naturally in years. God knows how long I’d sleep.
Chapter 2
            What felt like an eternity passed by. I woke up from an unknowable length of sleep sicker than sick. I don’t know if I was sick from sleeping more than I normally did or going without my pills, but I wanted it to end. I don’t think I saw nets installed on Dale’s apartment building yet. I wanted to jump off his balcony to escape the pain, but I couldn’t even get out of bed. The lights were off and the shades were down, and I drifted in and out of sleep.
            At some point Dale came back. “Hey Matthew,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe what we went through at the picket line! Mr. Pottersom was practically having a temper tantrum. No one entered, not even another office boy like you, so don’t worry about getting fired.”
            “Dale,” I moaned, “my sleeping pills. You need to give me my sleeping pills.” I mumbled my address and the code to unlock my apartment. I passed out again, and when I woke up Dale was back with my clothes.
            “I didn’t find your pills, Matthew, but it looks like you shouldn’t be taking them. Look at what they did to you. I brought you your clothes though. Man, I tell you what, nursing you is a pain the ass, no wonder no one can afford hospitals anymore. Thank God for those diapers of yours, it’s been saving my futon.”
            “Dale, please, I’m begging you, I need those pills to work my shift.”
            “Don’t worry about ‘em,” said Dale. “We ain’t giving up until everybody gets at most a twelve-hour shift. I got food in this tray right here. Try to throw up in the basket, would ya? Welp, back to the front lines, see ya later buddy.” Dale left me, and I passed out again.
            I went in and out of consciousness, with long stretches of sleeping and Dale nursing me. At some point I woke up with a terrible headache, but some semblance to my old self. I could finally sit up again. Dale wasn’t in. I rolled off the futon and went to Dale’s bathroom.
             The bags under my eyes were gone and my face was less sunken. I washed myself up. I was able to have a BM in the toilet, but I was still urinary incontinent. I sighed, I guess sleep didn’t cure that. I got dressed. The only clothes I had were diapers and office clothes, it didn’t make much sense to buy casual clothes when I had no days off.
            This was bad. Dale will obviously get fired from the strike. I guess I could ask him to be roommates. I could get more sleep when I go back to my twenty-hour shift, and he’d pay less in rent while he’s finding another job, assuming he doesn’t get blacklisted.
            I went to the balcony. As soon as I slid the glass door open, I heard a thundering boom of chanting, hollering, and police sirens. That’s right, Bizus Shipping Company was right down the street. Shit. I ran out of Dale’s apartment and out of the high rise into the street. I ran towards work but stopped once I ran into a large crowd.
            There was a wall of hard hats encircling the building. There were way too many of them, they couldn’t have just been the ones who worked at my location. Most of them had to have poured in from other warehouses. That’d explain why Bizus hasn’t just fired all of them yet, it must be some strong, unified coalition that somehow managed to spread without getting snuffed out. I don’t know how that could be possible, but then again, I’m an office drone, I’m not in the same loop as the hard hats.
            Encircling the circle of the union members and their sympathizers were legions of police with shields and bayonets. Outside of the circle of police were crowds of counter-protesters. I stood outside the circle of counter-protesters. The counter-protesters were all elites, their skin aged beautifully and normally, holding signs that said YOU HAVE ENOUGH.
            A young man in the outer circle of counter-protesters pointed at me. He was blond haired with an expensive haircut. His white skin had a tan that could only have come from a beach. He rattled his golden, diamond studded wristwatch as he pointed at me, and shouted: “Look at him! He looks like an ungrateful office worker! Let’s get him!”
            Him and several of the elites broke from the outer-ring and stomped towards me while rolling up their sleeves. All of them had bulging muscles that only someone with the time off to spend at the gym could afford. I walked backwards with my hands up. “No,” I said, “I know I have enough. You don’t need to get rough.”
            I backed into somebody and screamed. The person I backed into covered my mouth. I heard the person behind me say, “Where the hell have you been?”
            That voice, I know that voice. It was . . . Mr. Pottersom. I was spun around and faced my boss. He shook his head at me and said, “Ugh, forget it. Come with me, now. Get in.”
            I was pushed into a limousine that was parked near the road. Mr. Pottersom slammed the door shut and the limo drove off before the gang of elites could beat me up. In the backseat of the limo was me, Mr. Pottersom, and Mrs. Tilda, with Mrs. Tilda on the bench across from me.
            “M-M-Mr. P-P-Pottersom,” I stuttered, “I-I-I’m sorry I haven’t showed up for work, I-I-I”
            “Ugh, of course you haven’t been to work,” said Mr. Pottersom. “The entire branch has been sealed shut ever since that God damn union went on strike.”
            I put my hands to my head, rocked back and forth, and said “No. I was a bad worker. I could’ve, I could’ve, worked from home. I was just, I was just -”
            “You’re not the only one who couldn’t log on to work from home,” said Mrs. Tilda, “hackers sympathetic to the union have blocked out our entire intranet.”
            Mr. Pottersom banged his fist into the cushioned seat. I scooched away from him as he yelled “This is a war! Why has the god-damn government allowed this to happen?”
            “The strikers are exploiting a legal loop-hole,” said Mrs. Tilda. “They unionized under a Canadian charter. As part of the treaty that was signed when American settlers moved to the Arctic following the loss of our ancestral lowlands from the Great Melt, Canadian labor unions have an extreme level of immunity.”
            “Oh for fucks sakes,” said Mr. Pottersom, “those God damn Canucks don’t need no immunity. They need to get over themselves. This land is ours now.” He pointed at me. “You, Matthew, you’re not a Canuck are you?”
            “No sir,” I said, “I’m one hundred percent American. My grandparents moved here after Florida disappeared. We even fought the British-Canadian Alliance in World War Three.”
            “Good,” said Mr. Pottersom. “You don’t know who knows they have enough these days.”
            A mahogany panel behind Mrs. Tilda slid down. Behind her, I could see the driver and the Arctic Ocean. “Mr. Pottersom sir,” said the driver, “Mrs. Tilda madam, the helicopter to take you to Mr. Bizus will land after the guards have secured the perimeter.”
            Oh my God. I’m going to see Mr. Bizus? This can’t be real. As big of an opportunity as it was to impress him, it was equally a risk to step on his foot. Oh fuck, I just peed myself. Now is so not the time.
            The limo doors automatically opened and Mr. Pottersom pushed me out. Outside, I saw I was at a harbor that was guarded by a fake castle wall that encircled the entire base and jutted out into the ocean. Bizus Shipping Co. security guards were everywhere guarding the base as well as they would if they were military soldiers. I pulled out my phone. I should send a text message to Dale. Crap, he didn’t give me his number yet.
            “What are you doing?” asked Mr. Pottersom.
            I dropped my phone on the asphalt and picked it back up. “I’m s-s-sorry sir. I mean, I mean, um, I’m just texting my boyfriend, I mean my girlfriend, I mean my roommate, I mean –”
            Mr. Pottersom rolled his eyes. “Ugh, someone like you shouldn’t even have the time to be dating. That’s a recipe for slacking off. As soon as this stupid strike is over you better tell whoever is desperate enough to sleep with you it’s back to work.”
            I heard the chopping of a helicopter. I looked up and saw one hovering towards us. Gusts of wind blew Mrs. Tilda’s blonde braids, Mr. Pottersom’s oiled chestnut mane, and my premature grey hair. It landed and we entered. The inside was more spacious than I imagined it’d be, and the loud noises were blocked out. The seats looked a million times comfier than the seats in the limo. I tried to sit down in one, but before I could, Mr. Pottersom grabbed my right arms and pulled me back.
            “Don’t even touch it, you stupid boy. I don’t want your diaper leaking on the seat.”
            I blushed and crouched down on my knees while the two executives sat down on the seats. I have enough. The rug was the comfiest rug I have ever sat on.
            “Oh for crying out loud,” said Mrs. Tilda, “Harold, now is not the time for training. Young man, I outrank Pottersom. Sit in the chair.”
            Mr. Pottersom glared at me. I didn’t know what to do. Mr. Pottersom was my boss, but Mrs. Tilda did outrank him. Mr. Pottersom growled at me and pointed to a white leather chair. I got off my knees and sat down. Out the window, I saw the Arctic Ocean as a dark blue expanse. I squinted my eyes, trying to see if I could maybe spot an iceberg or two, but there was no ice. It was completely melted. I checked the time on my watch. It was midnight, but because we were so close to the pole, it was still bright outside. Midnight, I’d normally be asleep by then since ten PM to two AM were the only hours I had off. Dale really threw my sleeping schedule off.
            I saw Mr. Bizus’s massive yacht coming closer. It was bigger than the branch office I worked at. The helicopter landed and me and the veeps hopped out. On the deck, I was amazed at the sheer amount of luxury that surrounded me. I walked towards a water fountain and touched the water. The water felt sticky. I licked my hand, it had a fruity, bubbly taste to it, but still managed to have a punch.
            “Don’t drink that,” said Mr. Pottersom, “that’s a fountain of champagne. We can’t get drunk at a time like this.”
            A security guard and a man in a suit with a suitcase approached us. “Gentlemen,” said the man in the suit, “lady, before we dock with the main yacht, it’s important you surrender your cellphones and any other device that could possibly be connected to the internet. With hacking groups sympathetic to the union, we can’t take any risks until IT gets our firewall back up.”
            Mr. Pottersom and Mrs. Tilda handed over their cellphones to the security guard, who then took out the battery before putting them in the suitcase the butler-looking guy was holding. I handed him mine. I hope I get it back, I can’t afford a new one, especially with this strike going on. The security guard grunted at me. I ran behind Mr. Pottersom as if he was protecting me. Behind him, I checked my watch. Oh god, I haven’t even finished paying for it yet and I need it to record instructions at work. I can’t remember anything without it. I hope I don’t have to lose that, too. I set the record button on it and slipped it into my pocket.
            “Watches too,” said the butler.
            FUCK. This can’t be happening. I turned around and watched my bosses hand over their watches. The security guard grabbed both of my wrists and asked, “Where’d your watch go?”
            “He probably doesn’t have one,” said Mrs. Tilda, “he’s just an office drone. He’d be an idiot to buy a computerized watch on his salary.”
            “Huh,” said the guard, “I could’ve sworn . . . never mind. I think I see the main yacht now. We’ll be with Mr. Bizus soon.”
            Phew. That was a close one. Shit, Mrs. Tilda was right, I was an idiot to buy that watch on my salary, but fuck, I can’t use my phone at work and it’s hard to remember everything Mr. Pottersom tells me to do. At least I have it in my pocket recording everything now. And what did they mean by docking with the main yacht?
            I looked over the deck and couldn’t believe my eyes. Coming closer and closer to us was an even larger yacht than the one we were on. It dwarfed us. How was that even possible?
            The larger yacht had an empty space on its back side. Our smaller yacht floated inside it like a matryoshka doll, and artificial lights lit up. We went to an elevator and were lifted into a palatial Great Hall that looked more decadent than any hall that graced a reigning monarch. There were polished marble pillars that held up upper levels, granite fireplaces, sparkling crystal chandeliers that were so large it looked like it was raining diamonds. We followed the butler through marbled, gilded halls to the outside. There, I saw him.
            Mr. Bizus was standing near an Olympic sized swimming pool on the deck. He was wearing a bomber jacket, and I realized it was somewhat chilly outside. I guess we really were on the North Pole. Far from Santa Claus however, Mr. Bizus was clean shaven, with a head that was either bald or completely shaved. Given how money can cure baldness, he must just prefer the shaved look. Everyone at Bizus Shipping Corp had seen pictures and videos of him, but it was so weird to see him in person for the first time.
            “Welcome,” said Mr. Bizus. “Let’s cut straight to business, shall we?” He gestured us towards some cabanas near the pool. “Sit down, please.” He snapped his fingers. “Drinks, bring us drinks.”
            Swarms of servants came and gave us drinks and Hors d'oeuvres. When the servants left, Mr. Bizus asked “Who’s this?”
            “One of my office drones,” said Mr. Pottersom.
            “Has he had his second potty training yet?” asked Mr. Bizus.
            “Yes,” said Mr. Pottersom.
            “Ewe,” said Mr. Bizus. “Don’t let him sit on any of the furniture or use the pools. I’ve been keeping my yacht twice as staffed than it has to be so I don’t have to worry about any of the riff raff dripping pee anywhere.”
            Mrs. Tilda rolled her eyes. “At least he doesn’t take bathroom breaks.”
            “Yes,” said Mr. Bizus, “most excellent. What’s his name?”
            “Matthew,” said Mr. Pottersom.
            “Good boy Matthew,” said Mr. Bizus. “You’re a hard worker. I wish all of my employees could be trained as well as you.”
            “That reminds me,” said Mr. Pottersom, “I’ve been meaning to have cameras installed in all the warehouses so the hard hats stop wasting time pissing in bottles and just go in their pants. Once we break them as well as I broke Matthew here, we estimate profits will increase by a hundredth of one percent.”
            Mr. Bizus clapped his hands. “Excellent! Splendid! But we’ll have to destroy the union first.” He snapped his fingers. “Matthew, take minutes while your betters talk.”
            A butler handed me an old-fashioned typewriter and I began to type everything I heard. I guess they needed me to take minutes since all of our recording devices are dismantled to protect us from hackers. At least, that’s what they thought. I still had my watch in my pocket recording everything. I don’t think hackers would think of hacking into my watch. True, I’m a Bizus Shipping Corp. employee, but it’s my personal watch, it’s not connected to anything at my work. The recording should help me when they make me retype the minutes to a computer once this all blows over.
            A few more executives and some board members came out from the cabin and joined us. I typed away as they all rattled off:
            “I say we replace them all with AI now,” said the V.P. of engineering. “We were going to do it eventually.”
            “No,” said the CFO, “the goal is to minimize costs.”
            “Maybe we can dig up dirt on the union leaders?” suggested the vice chair.
            “Or create dirt,” suggested the V.P. of external communications. “I mean, Mr. Bizus sir, you do own the Arctic Post.”
            “The union leaders allude to a more equitable past,” said the vice president of human resources, “when workers only worked eight hours a day, five days a week, with wages higher than they are today adjusted for inflation. Perhaps we can use the Arctic Post to smear this ideology by painting this excess as the result of the bigotry that was rampant in the past.”
            Mr. Bizus clapped his hands. “That’s a brilliant idea, Horace. We’ll say asking for higher wages and shifts less than sixteen, or even twenty hours a day is sexist. Most men before the Great Melt only worked eight hours a day, and what were most men before the Great Melt? Sexist.” He tapped his chin and said, “Hmm, but we need a spokesman – I mean, spokeswoman. But who? Who could it be?” He nonchalantly stared at Mrs. Tilda as he continued to tap his chin and make mock humming sounds.
            All of the other executives and board members near the poolside, all men, stared at Mrs. Tilda.
            Mrs. Tilda’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
            “Jeffy-poo,” rang a high voice.
            A beautiful blonde woman in a bikini ran to Mr. Bizus. It was his girlfriend who broke up his marriage with his wife, the most expensive divorce in history. She sat on his lap and said “Jeffy-poo, I’m scared. Are we going to be poor? We have to do everything we can to stop those union thugs who don’t know they have enough. I’d hate for us to lose this yacht.”
            “Don’t worry sweetie,” said Mr. Bizus. “This yacht paid for itself. I took a line of credit with stock as collateral to–”
            “Jeffy-poo! You know what I mean.”
            “She’s right,” said Mr. Bizus. “We can’t allow these union thugs to win. I say we stage a little – blowout – at their protest, and blame the union. The union members will break the picket lines while losing public support at the same time. We might even be able to get the Canadian protection laws revoked too. It’s three birds with one stone.”
            I looked over the typewriter at the big wigs. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is Mr. Bizus – THE Mr. Bizus – actually suggesting a terrorist attack that could get people killed? I always knew the media worked for him and lied its ass off because what it reports on the company isn’t remotely true of what I’ve seen on the inside, but killing people? Everyone seemed to be taking it seriously. Mr. Pottersom had a look on his face that said he didn’t like it, but it was what it was. The only one who seemed truly appalled was Mrs. Tilda.
            I started panicking. I moved the mechanical typewriter in front of my face so no one could see my expression. I don’t want anyone to die, especially Dale after he nursed me back to health.
            Mr. Bizus pointed to me, Mrs. Tilda, and Mr. Pottersom. “You three, time to return to your ungrateful branch. Those union thugs will learn they have enough before this long Arctic day turns to night.”
            The three of us went to a helicopter and were lifted off the yacht. The helicopter ride back was silent and awkward. I made an awkward, unsettling moaning sound as I pissed my pants, so much it leaked through my diaper, but Mr. Pottersom didn’t yell at me or hit me like he normally does.
            Once we landed, I had the limo take me to my apartment, but only for the added cover. Once there, I ran straight to Dale’s apartment.
Chapter 3
            Deep inside a lair made of shipping crates, I was scrunched between a wall of cardboard boxes on one side and a stack of bottles filled with God-knows-what on the other side. A single lightbulb dangled from a string. Dale sat next to me chewing on beef jerky while an angry looking man with a Canadian accent sat on the floor across from us, glaring at me. A fearsome looking woman with a tattoo on her face banged her fist on a table.
            “We need Tilda,” she said. “It’s the only way we can get the authorities to believe the dipe’s recording. Otherwise Bizus will be quick to call it a deep fake.”
            I whispered into Dale’s ear, “Dale, what’s a dipe?”
            “Oh,” said Dale, “it’s just what we hard hats call the pussies who give up and get broken by Bizus. It’s supposed to be short for . . . uhh, never mind.” He handed me what he was eating. “Here, eat this jerky. You not eating is probably what’s making you have accidents.”
            The man across from us pointed his finger at me and said “We don’t need the veep! That dipe is a God damn Yankee office boy. The media will lap him up.”
            Dale put his hand in front of me and said “It’s obvious from the recording the elites hate the office drones just as much as the hard hats. They already have them pissing themselves and working twenty hours a day.”
            The man across from me said “They’d have us working four more hours a day too if it didn’t kill us. He’s lucky he gets to sit on his ass all day and tap fingers on a keyboard.”
            “You’re lucky we didn’t kick you out when we settled Nunavut,” said Dale.
            “You Yankees fucking invaded Nunavut!”
            “Stop it,” said the woman with the tattooed face. “Now is not the time for in-fighting.” She turned to me. “Matthew, you need to turn Tilda to our side. She’s our only hope. If we can get her to testify that your recording is real and not a deep fake, it will be enough to win this war. Bizus will be arrested, and the government will be forced to pass labor laws. Shifts longer than sixteen, twelve, maybe even eight hours will be outlawed in all of the United States of the Arctic. We might even get to use bathrooms at work.”
            “But what if she fires me?” I asked.
            “Then you’ll be fired.”
Chapter 4
            Mrs. Tilda’s apartment building glistened in front of me. It was an elite neighborhood, with landscaped gardens and ivy that grew along the stones of the building’s outer walls. The sun was shining, but it was ten PM. I was all alone in the brightly lit street. Most the elites were sleeping. Mrs. Tilda might be asleep too, since she normally supervised me during the early hours. Mr. Pottersom sometimes told me he hated how he had to supervise me in the later hours, but I never understood how he could hate it, since his shift was less than half of mine.
            I approached the building. It was twenty stories high, and Mrs. Tilda lived in a penthouse on the top floor. I looked up towards the top of the high rise, there were no nets installed. If the plan fails, at least I have that option. I made it to the doorway and pushed her penthouse’s buzzer.
            A minute passed by with no response. Maybe she was asleep, I won’t have to go through with it after all. I turned around and walked away.
            “What do you want?” asked the voice of Mrs. Tilda.
            I spun around and noticed a camera was pointed at me. She already knew it was me. I went to the buzzer panel and pushed the button. “I was, I was sent by …”
            “Come in,” she said. Her building’s front door unlocked.
            I entered and took the elevator to her penthouse. She greeted me in a white bathrobe with curling pins in her hair. She must really trust me to greet me so indecently. Trust, or have no fear of me because of how pathetic I am. She gestured me out of the entrance floor and locked the door behind me.
            The inside was fancy and spacious, but not nearly as luxurious as Mr. Bizus’s yacht. I shivered, she had the air conditioning on way too high. “Are you cold?” she asked.
            “Um, uh, no Mrs. Tilda, I um ,just …”
            “Alexandra,” said Mrs. Tilda, “turn the heat up.”
            Fans blasted, and the apartment quickly turned up to the level of our office building. “Isn’t Alexandra great,” I said, “I don’t think I could function without her. She wakes me up, orders all my groceries, and with the employee discount, I save so much –”
            “Just cut to the chase before you leak piss on my carpet, you worthless drone.”
            “Um, um, I was sent by, I was sent by –”
            “You were sent by Pottersom, I know.”
            I stared at an abstract painting she had on a wall. It looked like someone had just splashed a bucket of blue paint on it, but it was still pleasing to the eye. Not looking her in the face will make it easier. “Actually,” I said, “I was sent by … the union leader.”
            I heard her sigh. “Ugh, I was afraid it’d come to this.”
            “I’m not a member of the union, I swear!”
            “Oh shut up and grow a pair, will you.” Mrs. Pottersom walked to a bar that was in her living room and poured herself a glass of dark red wine. “Sorry Matthew. There’s nothing I can do to stop whatever Jeff is planning. If I go to the authorities, it’d be my word against his and just about everyone he pays to suck him off.”
            “That’s not true!” I said. “I, I, I have a recording. I snuck my watch onto the yacht. If you testify, it might be enough to stop the authorities from dismissing it as a fake.”
            Mrs. Tilda took a long sip of her wine. She finished her glass and said, “Alright, I’ll do it.”
            “You will?” I felt so relieved. Thank God.
            “I have nothing to lose,” she said. “At this point I have enough money to retire anyway. I might as well go out with whatever moral dignity I have left. But you’ll have to testify with me. Two witnesses is better than one, and with some makeup and hair dye, you might even convince the jury you’re an elite.”
            My relief evaporated. “But, but, I can’t. I’ll get fired. They’ll blacklist me and no one will hire me. I’ll get evicted from my apartment from not being able to afford the rent. Then I’ll be arrested for being homeless. Office drones can’t survive in prison.”
            “You’ll definitely get fired and blacklisted,” said Mrs. Tilda, “but don’t worry about going from Pottersom’s bitch to a prison bitch. Once Bizus is arrested, I’m suing his ass harder than his ex-wife did. You’ll get a slice of the pie, you might be even become an elite.”
            “Really?” I asked. “That can’t be possible. Drones like me don’t ever get rich.”
            “Well you won’t be a drone anymore. You’ll have enough money to move to a bunker in New Zealand, maybe even enough to pay someone to train you how to use a bathroom again.” She set her glass down and walked towards me. I backed against a bookshelf. I didn’t even know they still printed books. She grabbed me by my tie and yanked it, choking me, and said “Sounds good, doesn’t it? Well if I go down, you go down, so listen up. Bizus is having me go on television tomorrow to regurgitate some horseshit about higher wages and shorter shifts being sexist. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s planning on staging the bombing right after it so his news companies can strike while the iron is still hot. Tell your union leaders to keep children out of the picket lines to minimize the media’s crocodile tears. I’ll leave it to the workers to decide which of them is ready to die for their cause.”
            I tried to speak, but couldn’t from being choked. She let go of my tie and I caught my breath. As I gasped for air, I asked “But there’s got to be a way to stop people from dying.”
            “They would be idiots to kill anybody right after I whistle blow on them,” said Mrs. Tilda, “but prepare for the worse.”
To be continued in the next post.
This is a continuation of a story, please read the first post before this.

You Have Enough, chapters 5 - 6
By Chase TheQueerXX
Content Warning – contains depictions of violence that may be triggering to some readers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 5
            Dale and I were at my apartment. It was a small studio apartment like his, except I had a few more appliances than he did, like my television wall. I poured him a glass of water from my sink, and he asked “How can you afford to sleep here if you just make one more dollar an hour more than me?”
            “I can’t,” I said. “I keep racking up debt, and never had the time to find a new place. I’ve been meaning to ask you if I can move into your place and split the rent with you.”
            “Sure buddy,” he said, “but I want you to be safe, so let’s keep you here until we win. It should be far enough to be safe if the strike gets bombed.”
            I sat on my mattress and said, “Dale, why are you trying to protect me? You’re a hard hat, a blue collar, a grease monkey, a union thug, and I’m an office boy, a white collar, an office drone, a dipe.”
            “So what,” said Dale. He sat on the bed next to me put his hand on my shoulder. “I still care about you. We’re all in this together.”
            “No!” I shouted. “NO! We’re different.” In my head, I could hear Mr. Pottersom screaming at me. I put my hands to my ears, trying to block it out, but it was useless. “You just used me to spy on the executives!”
            “That’s not true,” said Dale. “I care about you.”
            I felt myself gasping for breath as I imagined Mr. Pottersom choking me by my tie. I fell onto the floor, gasping for breath. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them again, Dale had me back on my mattress and held a glass of water to my mouth. I drank it and caught my breath. I felt exhausted. I mumbled, “You probably just care about me because Mrs. Tilda said she was going to make me an elite after we beat Bizus.”
            “What?” said Dale. “You never mentioned that.”
            “Oh yeah. I guess, I guess I didn’t.”
            Dale laughed. “Now that you know I’m not using you, I sure hope you’ll think of me when you become rich. Forget moving in with me, I want to move in with you. Where do you want to go?”
            I leaned back on my bed and scratched my head. White dandruff snowed down from my grey hair. “I don’t know,” I said. “Mrs. Tilda said I’d be rich enough to buy a bunker in New Zealand.”
            “Why not Antarctica?” asked Dale.
            “Both sound nice, but I heard New Zealand is cool when you live high up in the mountains. Some of the wildlife survived the Great Melt, so it’d be almost like living in the good old days.”
            “You’ll be able to sleep better in New Zealand, it’s far enough from the poles to not have one day and one night a year.”
            “It’s hard to imagine the sun going up and down every day,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “It looks like it’s almost time Mrs. Tilda will be on. Alexandra, turn the TV on, channel six.” The TV wall automatically turned on. A beautiful, naturally aged anchorman sat at a desk while texts of headlines ran across the screen.
            “The Russian Confederation,” said the anchorman, “is sending its military to its southern borders to stop migrating caravans escaping increasing temperatures from reaching Siberia. Meanwhile, a heatwave as hot as a hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit – that’s close to fifty-five degrees Celsius to any Canadians watching – scorched the ruins of the old country as far north as Pennsylvania. Scientists are alarmed as it is very close to the winter solstice. Thankfully, us folks in the United States of the Arctic are in for months of relief from the heat, as we will soon enter the Arctic night.” The anchorman put his finger to his earpiece. “Just this is in, we have some breaking development from the ongoing Bizus Shipping Company strike. It involves one of its vice presidents, Julianne Tilda.”
            Dale nudged me in my shoulder. “This is it, buddy. They think she’s going to throw some shade at the strike, and then she’s going to pull the rug out from under them and expose Bizus.”
            “Julianne Tilda,” said the anchorman, “once a role model for career-driven women, has been arrested for insider trading.”
            “WHAT?” said both me and Dale.
            On my television, I saw Mrs. Tilda in handcuffs being dragged out of her apartment building by police officers. She looked like she was screaming at the top of her lungs, but the news channel wasn’t playing the audio of what she was screaming.
            “No,” I cried. I jumped back, but only fell onto my bed. My heart was pounding. This can’t be happening. It just can’t be.
            “Those bastards,” said Dale. “They all do that kind of shit. They can’t just throw her under the bus like that.”
            “No,” I cried. “How’d they find out? How’d they find out?”
            “I don’t know,” said Dale, “but she was our whistle blower. With her out of the picture, there’s nothing stopping them from blowing us up. I have to warn the others.” Dale took his cellphone out and tried to make a call. No one answered. He tried to call three more people before giving up. “Shit. You’ve got to be kidding me. They must be blocking cellphone signals at the strike. They must have planned this all out. I have to get there and warn them.” He ran to the door. I ran after him. He pushed me back, and I fell to the floor. “No,” he said, “you stay. You’re too weak to get past the counter-protesters. I might be fat, but I got some muscles from all the crates I’ve had to pick up.” Dale slammed the door shut behind him.
            I stayed laying on the floor, panicking. How could they have known? Did they know it was me who turned her? What’s going to happen to me?
            “Tilda faces up to twenty years in prison for –”
            “Alexandra,” I said, “turn the TV off!”
            The television turned off. I stood up, trying to contain myself, and sat back down on me bed. What am I supposed to do? People were going to die. What if Tilda rats on me and they come for me next? If cellphone signal is cut off at the strike, is it cut off at my apartment? I have to call the cops. “Alexandra,” I said, “call the police, tell them … tell them …”
            “Tell them you’re a bad employee who deserves to be fired?” said Alexandra.
            I rolled off my bed in shock. “WHAT?”
            My television turned on. On the screen, I saw Mr. Bizus’s smooth, shaved head. Beneath his sunglasses was a wide grin. I could see his children playing on a waterslide behind him. Mr. Bizus chuckled and said, “This is the part where I offer you millions of dollars in exchange for keeping your mouth shut.”
            Mr. Bizus let out a hard laugh. “Fuck no! I could so easily do it, though. If you were to somehow live to seventy, a million Arctic dollars would be the sum-total of a lifetime’s work for your salary. If you were immortal and could make that every single day starting from the birth of Christ, you still wouldn’t have nearly half of what I have.”
            “Then why,” I said, “why are you, why are you so … so …”
            “So greedy?” said Mr. Bizus. “Why I work my employees for every breath they have and make them piss in their pants? Do you really want to know why?”
            “Yes,” I said.
            “Because … it gives me … a hard on!”
            The television along with the lights in my apartment went off. It was pitch black. I stumbled towards the window and felt the shades, they were drawn. That could only mean the sun finally went down. The long, cold, Arctic night had begun.
            I heard the galloping of footsteps outside my apartment. They were coming for me. I opened up the window and jumped.
Chapter 6
            I woke up in a dim, tight space. I was scrunched up, with my back against a metal wall, my head bent under a wooden ceiling, and my feet against a small trash bin filled with paper. The floor was carpeted but hard. Light came from under the metal walls, and to my right, I saw a chair. A desk. I was under a desk. I crawled out from under the desk and into a cubicle. It was my cubicle from work.
            I stood up. It was my cubicle, but it didn’t look like I was in my office building. There were no other cubicles. It was empty.
            I walked out of my cubicle and into the empty office space. I heard a soft buzzing above me. I looked up and saw it was a light panel on the low, dropped ceiling. The ceiling tiles looked soggy, with brown stains.
            I walked through the halls trying to find a way out, but couldn’t. It was like a maze of empty offices. There were no windows, I had no idea where I was. I had both my watch and my cellphone on me, but the batteries were dead in each. There were clocks on the walls, but all of them were broken.
            I roamed the halls for what felt like hours. My mouth began to feel dry. I was so thirsty. Miraculously, I spotted a water cooler. I ran to it. It had the tiniest of cups. I drank cup after cup, trying to satisfy my thirst, but the cup was just too small. After ten or so cups, I left it and went back to roaming the halls.
            I came to an eerily long hallway. It looked miles long. There were doors along the sides of the long hallway. I went to one to open, but it was locked. I went to another, and it was also locked. I continued down the long hallway, trying door after door, but they were all locked. Eventually I gave up and just trudged my way down the long hallway. I started to have the urge to pee. My bladder was holding up stronger than it normally did, but that only made the pressure from it building up that much painful.
            I passed by a phone that was mounted on a wall. I grabbed it, dialed the police, and put it to my ear. Instead of the police, I heard screaming.
            “Aaaah! Help me!”
            “I can’t breathe!”
            “I’m on fire! Put it out! Put it out!”
            I hung up the phone. My heart raced. It sounded like … an explosion. Were we, were we too late to stop the bombing? Dale, he could be, he could be, dead.
            I ran down the long hall. I had to get out. I just had to get out. I was close to passing out from my running. Eventually, I made it to the end of the mile long hallway. I walked into a conference room.
            There was a long table in the middle of the room with empty chairs. The walls of the conference room were dark glass monitors. The light panels dimmed, and the wall monitors turned on.
            All around me, three-hundred and sixty degrees, I saw beautiful scenery in the monitors. Grassy green fields, peaceful woodlands, and large, funny looking birds. It was New Zealand. Music began playing in the conference room. It was some sort of flutelike whistling. No, wait, silly me, that was the sound of birds. I was hearing the songs of birds, the sounds of nature.
            The New Zealand scenery on the monitors disappeared, and in their place was the strike. There was a big explosion. Replacing the bird calls, I heard the thunderous booms of the bomb, and the heart crushing screams of the victims. It was mostly the strikers who were scorched by the explosion. My head turned from screen to screen, seeing a different tragedy in every corner. Then I saw Dale, on the ground, dead.
            “NO!” I screamed. “NO!”
            The footage of the disaster disappeared. I ran to the door of the conference room, but I found it was closed and locked. I was locked in. A monitor on one of the walls flashed back on. I turned to it and saw the head of the president of the United States of the Arctic, speaking on a news channel.
            “My fellow Arcticans,” said the president, “today is a day of mourning. Just before we would have otherwise celebrated the Arctic sunset and a long, cool, night, a bomb detonated at the strike that was disrupting Bizus Shipping Company. It is believed to have been perpetrated by the union thugs organizing the strike, in collaboration with the Canadian separatists.”
            “NO!” I screamed. “NO! That’s a lie! That’s a lie!”
            “Up to twenty of the strikers died,” said the president.
            “NO!” I screamed. “No!”
            “And more tragically,” said the president, “two of the counter-protesters died. A young man and a young woman, each from elite families. These two beautiful souls would have had a long, prosperous life, filled with joy and luxury, but it was cut short by those who do not know they have enough.”
            “No!” I screamed. “No! That’s not more tragic! Two elites are not more valuable than twenty workers!”
            “I am hereby ordering a revocation of –”
            I put my fingers to my ears. I rammed my body into the door I came in, trying to budge it open. It was sealed shut. There was a clicking sound behind me. I turned and saw the door on the other end of the conference room had opened. I ran through it and came out into more office space.
            I ran through a room that was filled with empty cubicles. The building was never ending, I just couldn’t comprehend how it could exist. Hell, I was in Hell. Now it all made sense, I failed to stop Bizus, and now I’m Hell, suffering the consequences.
            I put my hands to my crotch as I ran through the halls. I had to pee so bad. I was used to it coming out by surprise ever since I became incontinent, but now it seemed like I finally had the ability to pee at will.
            I saw a bathroom sign. I looked around me, it was still me, all alone in this crazy place. I guess Mr. Pottersom isn’t there to yell at me. I entered the mens room.
            The bathroom was such a needed change in scenery from the never-ending office space. Against the bathroom wall was a urinal. I could be in Hell for all I know, but it looks like I can actually pee again without going in my pants. And in a urinal – I could feel like a man again.
            I went to the urinal and stood inches from it. I put my hands to my zipper.
            “Matthew!” shouted a voice.
            I turned around and saw Mr. Pottersom. “Mr. Pottersom, what are you, what are you …”
            “I can’t believe I caught you slacking off again,” said Mr. Pottersom. “That does it, you’re taking a pay cut. It’s back to minimum wage for you.” He walked up to me and grabbed me by my tie. “Bathroom breaks are for those who earn it. You’re practically stealing from the company at this point. Come on, back to work.”
            Mr. Pottersom dragged me out of the bathroom by my tie. He dragged me to a cubicle and shoved me into an uncomfortable chair. There was a stack of papers on the desk. He pointed to them and said “Get to work, chop chop.”
            “No,” I said, “no! You, you, you can’t make me! I, I, I quit!”
            Mr. Pottersom slapped me across the face. He slapped me so hard, my chair spun, making me hit the other side of my head against the wall of my cubicle. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Mr. Pottersom. “You can’t quit. You’re our charity case at this point. No one will hire you if you quit.”
            “I, I don’t care!” I stood up. “I bet those hackers who are on the union’s side already have a copy of my recording. I’m going to find a way out of this, this, this prison. Then you and Bizus will go to prison, and no one will be overworked any –”
            Mr. Pottersom slapped me across my face again. “That’s Mister Bizus to you, you diaper wearing office drone.”
            I aimed a punch straight for Mr. Pottersom’s face. He grabbed my fist before it could reach his jaw, and then he squeezed my hand. I screeched in pain as my knuckles cracked. I fell to my knees while he continued squeezing. “Let go of me! Please!”
            “See,” said Mr. Pottersom, “look at how weak you are. I can’t imagine you as a hard hat. You have no idea just how good you have it.” He let go of my hand and then put the sole of his designer shoes to my chest.
            “Ahh! I’m only weak because I can never exercise thanks to you, or fuck, even eat!”
            Mr. Pottersom smiled. “Ahh, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He lowered his face in front of mine. “I don’t want you to tell anyone because it hasn’t been announced yet, but this Christmas, we’ll be introducing the Bizus Quick Shake. A specially designed formula to give you all the nutrients you need in the form of a drink. You’ll never have to eat again. You can get everything you need to survive through a straw while you stay hard at work. Only available to those with Bizus Prime. Good thing you have your employee discount.”
            “No! I want to eat real food! Like what we ate on Mr. Bizus’s yacht.”
            Mr. Pottersom took his foot off my chest and then grabbed me by my hair. He shoved my head into his crotch. “This! This is the closest thing to real food you will ever get. Do you understand that Matthew? Eating real, solid food, sleeping as long as you need, pissing in a urinal, those are all luxuries that should only belong to humans.”
            It was hard to move my mouth because it was shoved so hard against his crotch. I mumbled the words, “But I am a human.”
            “No,” said Mr. Pottersom, “you’re not. You’re an evolutionary dead end. You exist solely so people like Mr. Bizus and I can live. You do not live. You only work. Work is the only good.”
            Mr. Pottersom let go of me. I caught my breath and crawled around his legs. Tears were dripping from my eyes. I stood up and I wiped a tear from me cheek. “No,” I said, “I don’t, I, I’m … I’m going to piss in the urinal!”
            “Don’t you dare!”
            I ran straight back to the bathroom. Mr. Pottersom chased after me. I busted through the bathroom door and I slid across the linoleum tiles straight to the urinal. I put my hands to the zipper of my pants, and Mr. Pottersom wrapped his arms under my armpits and pulled me away. “No!” I screamed, “no!”
            “But Matthew,” said Mr. Pottersom, “haven’t you noticed? Your bladder is functioning again. I know you were unconscious the whole time, but after you jumped out your window and got caught in the net, Mr. Bizus paid to have your incontinence cured.”
            I tried to squirm out of his arms but couldn’t. “Why the fuck would he do that if he still doesn’t want me using the bathroom!”
            “Because,” said Mr. Pottersom, “he cares for you.” In a mock Dale voice, he whispered, “I care for you.”
            I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Urine came gushing out. I felt all sense of dignity, strength, and hope, wash out of me as the warm liquid spread. The padded, diaper briefs I had under my pants only made the feeling worse as it spread it all around my waist and rear rather than dripping out. I moaned and felt my legs go numb as my blood pressure dropped, and Mr. Pottersom lowered me on my back onto the bathroom floor.
            I have enough.
The End.
geez. I wanted to see things get better
[Image: 51806835273_f5b3daba19_t.jpg]  <<< It's mine!
(05-21-2021, 03:17 PM)CellarDweller Wrote: geez.  I wanted to see things get better

I thought about it, but in the end I figured the story was best left as a warning. The reality is, good doesn't always triumph over evil, and when it does, it's often too late.
very true
[Image: 51806835273_f5b3daba19_t.jpg]  <<< It's mine!
Well, I hope this wasn't based on any precognitive dreams you may have had  Big Grin 

I hope things don't get to this stage but I can certainly appreciate the sentiment, as this could be a reality not too far off. 'shudders'

There's plenty 'Mr Bezus'' around already! I wonder who he was based on...?  Big Grin
<<<<I'm just consciousness having a human experience>>>>
(05-27-2021, 07:24 PM)Bookworm Wrote: Well, I hope this wasn't based on any precognitive dreams you may have had  Big Grin 

I hope things don't get to this stage but I can certainly appreciate the sentiment, as this could be a reality not too far off. 'shudders'

There's plenty 'Mr Bezus'' around already! I wonder who he was based on...?  Big Grin

Oh no, the name was Bizus he's not based on anyone Wink 

I've been noticing that a lot of the stories I write tend to have something vaguely similar that happens immediately after, be it through pure coincidence of some sort of manifestation. Right after I wrote my wasp story, my house became infested with some strange species of wasps I've never even seen before (those things were building hives bigger than bees eek) and right after I wrote this one, yet another story broke out of a worker who got in trouble for using the bathroom. So, I think I'm going to go back to writing romances and hope another *coincidence* happens. If only it were possible to write an entertaining one without conflict Sad 

I thought about rewriting an alternate ending for this story, or another chapter, but I think it's better to just drop it. I don't really like it. I was working on chapter 2 of your non-serious sci-fi story (it features Mitch McConnell as an actual turtle Smile ) but another story came up.

Right now I've been so consumed with this story I just started writing, I'm almost at 10,000 words and it hasn't even been a week yet. If it goes past 70,000 words and I feel really confident with it, I might keep it for my professional portfolio and start querying lit agents with it, but I can email copies if requested to those I trust. It's a paranormal romance (I'm still not sure if I'm leaning more sci-fi or fantasy with this one). If it gets too long but not long enough to be acceptable by publishers, I might find another platform that would be easier for me to post and then post the links to it. I've been thinking deviantart, but that site has a ... reputation. On GS, I can only post, like, 7,000 words at a time, and then I can't post another section for a whole hour unless somebody were to post before I could post the next part, but then that would distract from the flow of the story.

I'm trying to go back to writing in past tense. Present tense became very addicting, but it's a crutch for creating something fast paced and is too limited. That's only been raising more problems for me though, because when I write in first person past, I'm confused on whether I should express the characters thoughts in past or present. Thankfully, most readers don't even notice the tenses anyway so if I'm not submitting it to an agent who probably has an English degree, I don't need to worry about it.

Also, as of right now, the richest man in the world is a guy who sells T-shirts priced over a thousand dollars to rich people. Let that sink in. I'm in the wrong business  Sad
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  • Bookworm
I'd happily read your ongoing story. You're giving me inspiration to resurrect some of my old writing projects. I think I have one around 10,000 words or so that I haven't looked at in years as I'd hit a wall and couldn't write through it. I need to find the portable storage hard drive it's stored on though lol

I need much more practice though. I've even started working on my poetry again but I'm feeling very rusty. I've thought about starting my own poetry thread like @CellarDweller did but I'm not sure really. I don't feel confident enough to share my mad writings  Big Grin
<<<<I'm just consciousness having a human experience>>>>
@Bookworm I would enjoy reading them.
[Image: 51806835273_f5b3daba19_t.jpg]  <<< It's mine!
(05-27-2021, 08:54 PM)Chase Wrote: Also, as of right now, the richest man in the world is a guy who sells T-shirts priced over a thousand dollars to rich people. Let that sink in. I'm in the wrong business  Sad

Hmmm, would you be happy in that situation? Kind of relate that to how there's a lot of people who claim to be mystics, spiritual guides, etc online and charge exorbitant prices for their services.

I do believe that the creativity you posses is far more valuable than money, although probably sounds trite at this point. I *do* think you should consider publishing your works.
"I’m not expecting to grow flowers in a desert, but I can live and breathe and see the sun in wintertime"
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