Walter Wallace - Chapter 49

For the fifth time that morning Mark Tanenworth put on his tie. It was a common monthly ritual he held in preparation for the Citadel general executives meeting. As General manager of CitaRail he would always attend these meetings with a slight flutter in his belly offset by a confidence that he would not be called on – the trains ran on schedule, like clockwork. In his 17 year tenure at the head of the rail network he had made very few decisions, faced no crises (until recently) and generally worked off the 20-year plan that the outgoing manager had provided him. There was a faint whistle of impending doom, like the cartoonish way that bombs fell from the sky, in that he had no ongoing plan beyond his predecessor’s vision, but that was still three years away. Plus a suicide bomber had beaten the falling shell to the punch in the form of the Newport Haven Disaster. Plus Mark needed to stop likening that incident to terrorism.

In the three weeks since the incident Mark had been in a state of mild depression, which seemed to compound on his already meagre self esteem. Instead of the tirade of abuse he had expected to receive, Simon had simply abandoned him the way that only a family member can do so. A simple text message received just after midnight on that horrid day read

Go home. Sammy will take care of it.

Simon had not snarled at him when they passed in the hallways of Citadel Towers, nor had he humiliated him, berated his ego as it sagged like a deflated balloon still strung up to the door as a welcome for a party already one month forgotten, wishing to be popped out of its misery, given a resting bed in the garbage, away from the glum expressions that it could once turn to smiles. But maybe the beration was required because Mark sat in his darkened room awaiting a directive, lacking a purpose, still strung to his old job.

Walter Wallace - Chapter 48

Walter felt happy for the first time in his life. It was a strange sensation, one he definitely was not familiar with despite the insistence of the world that he was the expert at it. He felt an excitement, a sense of potential. Each day he was engaged in the energy of the people around him. The tour was going great, the show was a lot of fun and they were genuinely helping people. He saw it in the audiences, read it in the letters, He did not know if his position was valid but he felt obliged to share whatever it was that he did know. And it seemed to be working.

The last three months had passed by in a second, yet he couldn’t imagine being able to recount even half of his experiences or emotions. They welled and stirred inside him like a pot of butterflies. He smiled as he looked into the mirror of his trailer. He had learnt so much about himself and others, how to express and share emotion, how to act and react, and when. Never why, though that was the question they always asked him. He studied the lines on his face as his smile faded. Was he still the same person?

No. Change was constant. Was he worse, better? He shrugged.

Walter Wallace - Chapter 47

Whisky sat in the passenger seat of a small rental in a town situated a few hours south of the city. Chips was in the driver’s seat. They had been taken off the Walter Wallace surveillance job for the last few weeks. It made Whisky anxious to be separated from the saga, from the man himself, but the logic was simple enough: the media circus had Walter on Big Brother coverage – no way he could escape – and the current job required Boss’s best. Perhaps the last part was the flaw in the logic, another cause for anxiety.

The pair, who were once the stars of the Cit Soldiers, seemed to be malfunctioning. Whisky himself was struggling to maintain his ever fluctuating emotions, while Chips, on the other hand, had developed an anger, a rage that culminated in him shooting a civilian.

The silence, which was not uncommon between them, now seemed to hang in the air like clothes taken out of the wash before the spin dry. Whisky had dreaded the feeble defence he had for letting down his partner at Newport Haven Terminal, but for reasons unknown Chips had never demanded an explanation. Was it because Chips knew where Whisky had gone? Did he doubt Whisky could deliver an excuse reasonable enough to maintain the partnership? Was he still debugging his own demons?

Walter Wallace - Chapter 46

The two weeks that followed the Newport Haven Train Disaster weren’t easy for Stevie. He had spent most the time watching the news and following the story on the internet. There was plenty of garbage to sort through - memorials, survival stories, heroic feats of bravery – most of it could be attributed to the Walter Wallace/Lucy Blues incident which had even included a mention of ‘Stevie the police officer’ who Walter had referred to in one interview as the real hero. The writer had taken the angle of using the information as an indicator of Walter’s modesty, his defection of glory. Stevie tried not to be bitter.

The other well documented story had been the shooting and alleged accusations against Citadel Inc from the self-titled Hippy Flip. This story had been a flicker of hope for Stevie in his personal endeavour to expose the multinational, but it was quickly made into a circus.

Hippy Flip, proprietor of the once anonymous conspiracy blog BullCit, was now a superstar, a good six minutes into his fifteen at the top of blogrolls around the web. The story of the shooting was conveniently swept under the rug, an exaggeration of Phil’s wacky persona. The kid is just being ironic, a sensationalist making a statement about the art of media deception. That was what they were saying. Stevie would have liked to give Phil the benefit of the doubt, surely his life was threatened, loaned to the devil, but he couldn’t help but see the fallacy in Phil’s exploitation, that the only irony was that he too was being deceived. Again Stevie tried not to be bitter.

Walter Wallace - Chapter 45

Boss Citadel was not in the brightest of moods. He gritted his teeth with every push of the button, sucking in his cheeks futily like a baby rejecting a pacifier. Every fucking channel. Every. Fucking. Channel.

“What the fuck do I buy 150 channels for if they are all going to show the same fucking thing!?”He yelled to no one in particular. Ms Citadel had long retreated into her quarters to escape the rage of her husband. “Huh!?” He switched off the large plasma screen that hung on the wall and threw the remote at Ms Citadel’s door. “Stupid bitch,” he mumbled to himself, mildly sedated.

The day had not begun well for Boss. He woke with a rage headache pounding at his temples. This occurred whenever he went to bed angry. Last night Sally the maid had the night off and Boss was desperate for a head job so he resorted to the unthinkable and asked his wife. The cunt of a woman had answered “Only if you do me first.” Boss winced just at the memory of the thought of it. Bitch has probably got scales down there by now. Needless to say his failure to release the valve was having severe repercussions.