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About This Author
I am SoCalScribe. This is my InkSpot.
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Blogocentric Formulations
Logocentric (adj). Regarding words and language as a fundamental expression of an external reality (especially applied as a negative term to traditional Western thought by postmodernist critics).
Sometimes I just write whatever I feel like. Other times I respond to prompts, many taken from the following places:
 "The Soundtrackers Group" 
"Blogging Circle of Friends "
"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
"JAFBG"
"Take up Your Cross"
Thanks for stopping by! 
September 5, 2021 at 1:01am September 5, 2021 at 1:01am
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By the time the human population on Earth rounded the corner on eleven figures and headed straight down the interstate toward fifteen billion souls on the planet, something had to be done. That something was Retirement. Not to be confused with lowercase-r "retirement," which was still the age at which most people left their professional careers to enjoy their twilight years, capital-R "Retirement" was the age at which you were eliminated from the human population.
That age was 75. Sure, people tried to buy themselves more time, or went on the run, but for most, your 75th birthday was also the day you died. You had ten years to live your life after you retired, before you were permanently Retired. And thus the nations and the planet they existed on sustained their growth, unencumbered with caring for the elderly for an indeterminate number of years before they finally gave up the ghost.
Gus was well aware of all of this as the final six months of his 74th year elapsed. As an affluent member of society, he had exhausted all of the options that rich people tend to try when they're faced with a problem. He tried to see if there was someone he could bribe. He paid high-end attorneys and lobbyists to try and change the rules or find an exception. He considered how far his considerable assets could get him if he went on the run.
He was in the process of liquidating those assets in the final days of his life, preparing to live as a fugitive, when one of his attorneys called. His attorney had heard rumor that there was another way to live past 75 with his identity, assets, everything intact. The attorney confirmed that a retired friend of Gus', a former international banker named Walter, was in fact alive and well at the ripe old age of 84. It turns out that Walter hadn't suicided himself, or availed himself of the government's "humane" methods of euthanasia, or gone on the run. He continued to live it up, the lowercase-r "retirement" phase of his life about to turn the corner into an unheard-of second decade.
Naturally, Gus insisted on setting up a meeting. He had to know how Walter had accomplished the impossible.
Two days later, Gus was sitting across the table from Walter at a secluded cafe in London.
"Yes," Walter was saying. "I did find a way to extend my years on this planet. It wasn't easy, and the cost is high."
"You and I both know cost isn't a concern," Gus urged.
"I'm not talking about money," Walter said. "It a price paid by the soul."
Gus smirked. "We both know my soul is pretty much as unsalvageable as yours at this point."
Walter shrugged.
"I will relay to you what was relayed to me. Like you, as I approached my 75th birthday, I looked for some way, any way, to stave off the inevitable. Like you, my research led me to an old friend who apparently defied the odds and found a way to extend his life. Like you, I met with this person on the day of my 75th birthday."
Gus leaned in, eager to know more.
"My friend explained a loophole in the Retirement Statute. If you're willing to help enforce the Statute against others, for every Retirement you carry out, you get another year of your own."
"That's amazing," whistled Gus. "Yes, absolutely. Where do I sign up?"
"That's the thing," Walter said, with a hint of sadness. "It's a loophole that's now so widely exploited, it's hard to find candidates anymore. That was the case when my friend told me this nearly ten years ago, and it's only gotten more difficult."
Gus felt a tingle of foreboding crawl up his spine as Walter continued.
"My friend sought me out. Planted all the clues that led me to him so that, on my 75th birthday, he'd have an easy mark. As it turns out, though, I wasn't as easy a mark as he anticipated. I was able to gain the upper hand, kill him, and thus spent the entirety of my 75th year figuring out how to add another year. And another year after that, and another after that."
Gus was sweating. He looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon, or something to defend himself with.
Gus gulped. "So how does this work now? Dueling pistols? Knife fight in the street?"
Walter clicked his tongue. "Well, my friend and I have one very important difference. He believed in giving his marks a sporting chance so that, if his time was up and someone like me earned their spot, that was how it was meant to be. Me? I'm not really that sporting. I poisoned your tea before you even sat down at the table."
Gus looked at his empty teacup and at his hand which was beginning to shake.
"Sorry old friend, but you understand." Walter continued. "I'm sure you would have done the same to me if our positions were reversed. After all, we both have unsalvageable souls, don't we?"
Walter stood up to leave. Gus tried to stand as well, but found that his legs weren't responding. His vision blurred, and his head was spinning.
"Don't worry," Walter said, patting Gus on the shoulder. "I used a synthetic toxin that I'm told is relatively painless. You'll lose all feeling in your body before your lungs and heart give out. In the meantime, enjoy the ambiance. This cafe really is delightful."
Walter shrugged on his coat, produced his wallet, and left several bills on the table.
"I'll leave a little extra for their trouble when they have to dispose of you," Walter said, giving his old friend a little salute. "Oh, and Gus? Happy Birthday."
(973 words) |
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