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; from seared and sliced arms, to crumpled, battered and severed legs and heads, to the sometimes eructed eyeballs and teeth that are eventually strewn about, along with fragments of brain and skull. The cherry on top (if you're into that sort of thing) would be the copious amount of bowels and other bodily contents ejected, finding a new home splattered across the soft wall and roadway.
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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While it's my own fault for taking this job and losing my family, I still blame the Vermouths. They left a lot of us with no other choice except to join their ranks. Certainly, we could've risen up and revolted, but there's this one pesky little fact when it comes to them: they have our local law enforcement in the palms of their bloody and grubby little hands. They also have a private security firm called Blacksteele.
The Blacksteele guards are the main security force for San Belfegor, and those guys are armed with the best full-auto rifles money can buy. I have never seen them use handguns. Actually, they rarely put their hands on people. It's always cases of "shoot first, ask questions later", but no questions need be asked when the answer is always death. I will never forget the day when a contestant changed his mind about being in the VisceraFest and tried to leave, claiming he wasn't thinking straight when he signed up. Vesper, who's actually the colder and more sadistic of the siblings, wasn't having it. She signaled for two guards to apprehend the man, who had gotten in his car. Apparently, he intended to run the two over, but foolishly put his vehicle in reverse, probably out of fear. Still, the second he mashed the gas, he got Swiss-cheesed.
His car sat in that same spot for a whole month, with his rotting body inside it, and the siblings charged people to come and view it, raking in beaucoup cash. When I inquired on why this was done, Vesper claimed it was to symbolize the weakness of man and the decisions we make under duress. The way she said it made it seem like she isn't human. Really unnerved me.
Ultimately, the poor fellow's car was blown up, along with his festering corpse, as a warning to anybody else that might get the bright idea to quit.
***
As previously stated, San Belfegor has Blacksteele for security and law enforcement, so as sort of a "rule of thumb", the Rivercrest PD never sets foot on the property, not even as spectators. With the Vermouths paying them off (and handsomely, might I add) to look the other way when spectators get killed, it's no surprise that they keep their distance. I used to think that since this shit is livestreamed, the government would eventually step in and put an end to it, but the Vermouths have connections way up there. It's pretty ridiculous that our own fucking POTUS, along with other politicians, get incentives to ignore it all.
From doing a bit of digging, I've gathered that one of those incentives is having a representative in the contest, which I suppose is to keep some kind of eyes and ears around. While I don't know exactly who it is, my best guess is that it's the most patriotic—and racist—of the contestants: Darryl Daniel Dixon-Trivette, known on the San Belfegor Battlegrounds as America's King.
Darryl is thirty-two years old and hails from somewhere in Alabama. As a contestant, he drives a heavily armored, blood red 1969 Dodge Charger, with the American flag on its passenger side door, and the Confederate flag on the driver's side. Like most in the contest, his car is outfitted with a special weapon, called a VisceraPerk, and the secondary weapon of hood-mounted, dual miniguns. Darryl's VisceraPerk consists of electrified bullwhips that seem to have a life of their own. While he prefers to be close to opponents when using "The Slavemasters" (his name for them), he isn't required to. The whips can extend a great distance, wrapping around the wheels of an opponent's vehicle, no matter how fast they're going. He uses this technique mostly to flip vehicles over, but at times the whips have hoisted cars in the air to throw them out of the stadium. I'm of the belief that's not all they can do, those are just his preferred moves.
Again, I only believe that Darryl is the government's mole simply because of his "patriotism". Maybe that's naïve of me, but I just feel like he lays it on a bit too thick to really be a legit contestant. Someone placed him here, I'm sure of it. Even if it isn't the government, he still rubs me the wrong way for obvious reasons, and reasons I still can't place my finger on.
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Earlier tonight, I received a call from Lucien informing me that he wants to see me in his office first thing Monday morning. I don't know the reason, but he didn't sound happy, so maybe he's heard some of the rumblings about me from my coworkers. Perhaps they've told him of my eagerness to be done with this hellhole and he's going to fire me. It wouldn't be the worst thing to be honest, as after five years of this bullshit, I'd rather be destitute. I mean, I only took this shitty job in the first place to support my family, but I no longer have one, so why am I even still here? Just to keep paying the utilities and rent for a place where I'm all alone, swallowed up by silence and despair? I really should be dead, but I'm too unlucky to even be granted that. However, I gotta admit that I must've been some kind of pest in a past existence, because misfortune has showered me in so many ways. Like, perhaps I was a mosquito, wasp or a cockroach that came in contact with the Pope or someone else ordained by God. Maybe I was a tick? Eh, whatever I was, I'm certainly paying for it in this lifetime.
***
It's Monday morning now and I'm up, earlier than usual, doing my daily routine. I have neglected to shave today though because the stubble on my face fits my current mood. I also don't feel like picking out my hair, so I'll just waltz into the office with this nappy-ass afro. This depressed state I've been in has made it difficult to operate as usual, but I ultimately shake myself free and do what I have or need to do. However, today isn't one of those days. I had originally scheduled an appointment with my barber, Kirkland, for tomorrow, but learned at the last minute that he had been chosen to participate in this month's VisceraFest. Sometimes, it seems like the Vermouths are systematically wiping out people I know, value and depend on.
If I didn't mention it before, the VisceraFest is a monthly thing. Well, a six-month long event to be precise. People come from near and far to participate, hoping to make it to the grand finale: the VisceraFest World Tournament. For the past five years, there have been over a thousand entrants, but only a select few have secured top spots. Pretty much, whoever wins overall in a specific month, gets placement. Like last month, José Papua— a contestant who goes by the name of Pizzakrust— won. For someone driving in a clunky, old, white Mazda pick-up truck with a rusted pizza place emblem on the top, he certainly cleaned house.
The mumblings around town and the office are that José entered to get revenge on the Vermouths for shutting down his family's restaurant, Papua's Pizzeria. Like with everything else in Rivercrest, the Vermouths did away with whatever they deemed unnecessary, or anything that may reek of competition in the slightest. While the popularity of and interest in Papua's had waned over the past decade or two, it was still a staple in Rivercrest. I had been there a few times as a youth, but don't remember much about it aside from it being reasonable in price. With the emergence of much larger restaurant chains and businesses, like Junior Boom's Pizza Emporium, Papua's began to see less patronage. I had assumed their doors were shut long before the Vermouths arrived, but it seems they'd been chugging along still, albeit in a hampered state.
***
I'm finally at work, sitting outside Lucien's office, waiting on him to call me in. His secretary, Annalise Sheffield, has been staring holes into me with her big, ocean blue eyes while smirking and twirling her curly, blonde hair. She had twirled it so tight that I thought she'd cut off the circulation in her finger. Like, I could've sworn it was turning purple, but it may just be my nerves. While I am hoping that Lucien will let me go today, I have a fear it may be a step in a worse direction.
"Ms. Sheffield," Lucien says, his voice blasting through the intercom. "You can send Fleetwood in now."
"Right away, Lucien," she replies with a slight giggle. "Mr. Reever, you heard the man. You're up."
"Uh, yes, of course, right away." I sputter, unable to hide my nervousness. Her tone with me was a bit snotty, as opposed to the amused look on her face. I believe I am right to assume she knows more than she's letting on by appearance alone.
"Morning, sir. You wanted to see me?" I inquire as I enter the room through the stained-glass French doors. An odd choice for an office, but Lucien is eccentric like that.
"Yes… yes, I did, Fleetwood. Have a seat, would you?" Lucien gestures towards a rickety gaming chair in front of his desk. It's never been here before, so I take it the piece of shit was brought in on my accord. Nevertheless, I take a seat. The chair wobbles a bit as I patiently await the "verdict". Obviously, Lucien is pissed.
Unlike Vesper, Lucien resorts to lots of passive-aggressive behavior and nano-aggressive slights when he's upset. These can range from extending an employee's hours, to pointing out a person having dirt under their fingernails and punishing them based on that alone. He's remarkably astute and fastidious, despite the bloodshed and chaos surrounding him. Actually, that's probably why he's so hard on the Remains crew when it comes to clean-up. Speaking of which, being assigned to the Remains was one of those aforementioned slights for me, solely because I miscounted the kills for Splinterwing a year ago. He never forgave me, though Splinterwing was calm about it. It didn't matter to him since he doesn't keep count, all he cares about is making the kills. His motto is "Whether ten or a thousand, I'm doing my job." It always struck me as odd that he referred to it as a "job", but again, it's something I shouldn't at all be surprised about. Nobody around this place is normal.
"So………Fleetwood, it's been brought to my attention that you're tiring of your current lot in life and that the day-to-day functions at San Belfegor are………eating you up inside. May I ask exactly why that is?"
"Well, uh, I mean," I start, stumbling over myself. My hands are feeling clammy and my chest is tight. I expected him to bring this up, but didn't expect him to jump right into it. He's never been this straightforward before, so something is definitely amiss here. "I don't see any other way to put it except that the violence is tough to deal with it. The excessively extreme content is………uh………not easy on my stomach. I'd be happy if I didn't have to see another mutilated body ever again."
"Hahahahahahaha!" Lucien mirthfully roars. "You've been here, what, five years? It's just now getting to you?"
"Well, no. It's always gotten to me," I retort. My distress is probably more visible now. "However, I can't keep fighting the ways it's messing with my mind. These conditions are not good for anyone to be in."
Lucien cackles even louder this time, kind of shaking the room. "Fleetwood, you're a valued member of my organization, but I think you need a vacation."
Now I'm feeling really weird. What does he mean by a vacation? I mean, I know what a vacation is, but the accepted definition and whatever Lucien's may be are certainly different.
"Ummm, come again, sir?"
"Let me be more clear: what I think you need is some first-hand experience in the VisceraFest. You're seeing the aftermath, which I admit is quite dour and macabre. Yet, I gather that if you enter, you'll certainly buck up and realize why people come from all over to participate. It's not just senseless murder, it's a beautiful way of life."
"Now wait a goddamn minute, you expect ME to participate in that shit!?" I can't believe he would even suggest such a thing. Nope, wait—I can. This is just Lucien being Lucien, passive-aggressive behavior on full display. "What in the world makes you think I'm qualified for vehicular combat?"
"Oh, on the contrary, Fleetwood: I don't think you're qualified in the slightest. However, when one's back is against the wall, a titan is created. Pressure bursts pipes and makes diamonds, it's up to you which one you'll be."
"But I d—" I begin, when I'm suddenly cut off by the sound of Vesper's voice as she storms in.
"Mr. Reever, my brother and I won't take no for an answer. It's in your best interest that you comply, or I'll be………no, we'll be, more than happy to make an example out of you. Complying at least gives you a fighting chance, not that you have much of one to begin with."
"Well, I'm really between a rock and a hard place, huh?"
"Indeed you are, Mr. Reever," Vesper says. "So what's it gonna be? If you really want to die, might as well go out with a bang."
It's more than apparent that I have no other choice. Resistance will only make things worse. Suddenly, I find myself filling up with the same disgust from the day Lucien first offered me a job. Knowing that I'm entering this contest would certainly disappoint Charlene and Nneka, so I guess it's good they left me long ago.
I am a weak man, always have been. It's either I run from things, or I stay and just take all of the shit, never fighting back. Now? Well now I can't run, but I can at least fight and retain some semblance of control in my life. I can't allow this spineless personage to persist. It must be stamped out, or my name isn't Fleetwood Dwayne Reever.
"Alright, I'll do it. I'll participate in the VisceraFest," I declare through gritted teeth. Committing to that was tough, but it's the best thing I've ever done. Well, I can only hope it is. "However, there's something I want you both to know concerning my involvement."
"Oh?" Lucien reacts, eyebrows raised in puzzlement. "What exactly would that be?"
"I'm going to win, and when I do, you two have to pack up and leave Rivercrest, never to return. Those are the conditions of my agreement."
Vesper and Lucien both erupt into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
"Well, Mr. Reever, I'd like to see you try and do that," Vesper snickers. "You are aware how seasoned and stiff the competition is, correct?"
"Yes, I'm well aware. Still, I have tons of knowledge of how they all operate in battle. With that on my side, I shouldn't have much trouble."
That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever said, but I hope it sounds convincing. I'm not at all convinced myself, but it's not me I have to be concerned with at the moment, it's the Vermouths. If they feel threatened by my proclamation, then that's all that matters.
"So do we have a deal?"
Vesper looks at Lucien, who is currently hunched over with his eyes closed, deliberating in his head. He opens them, looks at her and smiles.
"Fleetwood, you indeed have yourself a deal. I can't wait to see you in the Finals."
"Wait, in the Finals!?"
Vesper lets loose a boisterous laugh. "What? You didn't think we'd make you a finalist without competing like everyone else, did you, Mr. Reever?"
"I mean, I assumed I would be since it's so late in the competition. It was Mr. Vermouth's idea after all."
"Firstly, don't call me Mr. Vermouth, that's my father's name. Call me Lucien. Secondly, there's no favoritism in the VisceraFest, Fleetwood. You earn your spot like all the others, is that understood?"
"Uh, yes. Yes, it is, sir. Duly noted." Okay, on second thought, I have a lot more self-convincing to do than I concluded. I'll be going up against new competitors, which means I won't have much time to learn patterns. I'll just have to step out on faith. Jesus H. Christ…
"We're both delighted you get the message, Mr. Reever," Vesper replies, tapping her tongue against the roof of her mouth. I don't know what you call the sound she was making, but it was kind of demeaning for some reason. "Now, scurry off, will you. We have more pressing business to attend to."
She waves her hands dismissively as I rise from the wobbly chair and take my leave.
"You don't have to tell me twice," I nervously chuckle as I walk away backwards, pivoting toward the doors. Before I can get out, however, Lucien calls for me.
"There's one more thing I wanted to say: while you were in here, we took the liberty of upgrading your car for the competition. You do drive that orchid yellow 2004 Honda Jazz, correct?"
"Yes, I do, sir. What exactly did you do to it?"
"Oh! Nothing that you should be worried about. We just made it optimal for entry in the contest. However, you are without a VisceraPerk. You'll have to discover what that will be on your own."
"So, you're saying I only have the miniguns use?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying, Fleetwood." Lucien chuckles.
"Sir, with all due respect— what type of shit is that!?"
"Well, we couldn't have you enter without a weapon at all, but we also wanted to see what you're really made of," Lucien says. "Lacking a VisceraPerk will be pretty interesting and should make you a viral sensation. Of course, this all hinges on how far you make it next month. Anyway, that will be all. You're free to go."
Without protest, I leave, slamming the doors behind me so hard that I thought the glass would break. Surprisingly, it didn't, which means I'm not even strong enough to slam doors in a threatening manner. Out the corner of my eye, I can see Annalise snickering and grinning from ear to ear. I choose not to engage her, however, as I head towards the elevator.
It's back to my usual grind for now, but with the added weight of what's in store for me next month. Only now is the reality sinking in.
"What did I get myself into?"
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