My name is Fleetwood Reever, and I'm sick of my job.
Every last one of my coworkers thinks I'm crazy when I say that, but it's becoming extremely difficult to stifle how much my loathing has grown when it comes to our monthly-and weekly-routine. They bark and rave, lashing their tongues in rebuke and telling me that I should be used to it by now. While it's quite true that I should, the reality is that this bullshit only gets harder to swallow.
Currently, it's a Saturday night and I'm at home in my bed, ready to sink into the eigengrau before me. I close my eyes and attempt to sleep, like always, but ultimately find myself jarred out of my rest. The latter part is nothing new for me though, as it happens night after night. Every time I feel ready to drift into slumber, I end up accosted by a recollection of devastating events. The trauma hits hard like a bunkerbuster, forcing its way through, shoving itself deep into my psyche.
You're probably saying to yourself that I have a flare for the dramatic and that I'm overreacting to the nth degree. Things can't be that bad, right? Well, I assure you that they are.
See, I'm sick of reliving the awful sounds of vehicles clashing and metal being rended, the bloodcurdling chorus of screams from people who were either burned alive or disgorged from their cars, flying like bullets through splintered glass and subsequently run over. Some have even soared into the stands, landing on spectators, and most times past them, where they stick like fleshy darts into the stadium's concrete barrier.
All the time, my mind replays the grisly mutilation; I won't go into full detail, but sometimes there are eructed eyeballs and teeth that end up strewn about the battlegrounds. Other times? Well, other times there are copious amounts of other bodily contents ejected, where they find a new home splattered across the soft wall and roadway like haphazard graffiti.
I've beheld these events going on five and a half years now, and I thank the Almighty above that I'm not desensitized yet. I mean, pardon me if I sound contradictory in my following statement, but I am overjoyed that my heart remains heavy, as well as that my stomach still yields to nausea no matter how many times I see these appalling exploits. What I wake up to is a living hell, brimming with unmitigated carnage. An inescapable hell, it would seem, brought to you by the magnificent contestants in the Vermouth Motors VisceraFest.
In case it wasn't obvious, my use of "magnificent" was sarcasm, as there's nothing magnificent at all about these depraved and unrepentant scatsacks. I never knew so many people (if you can even consider them that) enjoyed senseless murder and mayhem. Just a gaggle of completely irredeemable, bloodthirsty monsters engaging in absolute chaos, primarily driven by the need to go viral.
Actually, it surprises me that the internet fame is more important than the money, but maybe I'm overthinking it all.
***
You may ponder why I've never averted my gaze if I really am sick of seeing it all, but the truth is that I can't. Looking at this shit is my job, or rather, one of my jobs.
See, I work at the San Belfegor Speedway, which used to be a reputable racing stadium here in Rivercrest until it was taken over by two shrewd, lewd and very psychopathic siblings-Lucien and Vesper Vermouth-back in March of 2067. As things currently stand, my primary job is that of a Counter, which means I am tasked with keeping records, like who all placed in the competitions, as well as the body count. The latter is what I loathe the most, since some of the dead are people I personally knew. As a secondary job, I occasionally help out the Remains Shift, which is the crew that's tasked with cleaning up, well, the remains.
Whatever is left on the roadway that day, they have to gather up in bags and barrels, which are then taken down to the waste depot. It's grueling and very unforgiving work, but they do it with no complaints. Whenever I'm asked to help, I end up having a deathmatch in my mind just to hold my tongue, for I'd certainly gripe about this bullshit the entire time. Even in this day and age, you're encouraged to keep your head down and mouth sealed if you hope to survive. The Vermouths run this place like a totalitarian regime.
***
I detest my current job, but there's nothing else available in this godforsaken city. My original career, which was that of an accountant at a Fortune 500 company, got snatched from under me when The Vermouths came to town. They bought out every business that they could, pretty much flushing the city with their image and propaganda, brainwashing most of the populace.
Lucien offered me a job at San Belfegor in October of 2068, which I honestly wanted to reject. However, with no other options except extremely menial work that couldn't even afford one an apartment, I took him up on his offer. I had a family to take care of after all. My daughter Nneka, who was seventeen at the time, despised me for "getting in bed" with the Vermouths. I assured her that I "wasn't in their bed, just keeping the covers nice and neat", but she wasn't buying it. She cussed me out, packed herself a few things, then told my wife, Charlene, and me that she was leaving for good. I was already disgusted with myself at that point, so I didn't bother going after her, which angered Charlene. I just chose to look at it this way: Nneka was a month away from the age of emancipation, so there wasn't much I could do.
Being overbearing as a parent has never been my thing, but that weakness with my parenting is also why I gave in and took that job. Something Charlene would consistently nag me about. After nothing but arguments for the two months since Nneka left, Charlene finally did the same and took our seven-year-old son, Mykal, with her.
I haven't seen any of them since, and I'm not even sure they're still alive, but I certainly hope they are.
🚘🚘🚘
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