Chapter 12 Desperation

• It's just them and me. All that exists now is my war. Whatever that could be considered happy and bright was long since in the past with most of it already forgotten. Gone is the laughter and happiness of coming home after an honest day's work; there's no home to come back to. "Honest" work showed its true colors too and sacked the few honest people that were there. Myself included. All for saying no to inebriated conformity. Modern life slowly began to lean in favor of the new age lifestyle of chemicals, intoxicating plants, poisons, and endless dopamine hits.
• After the 2 of us got fired, things went from bad to worse; not only did I lose my apartment but minutes later, my comrade-in-misfortune called me and barely fighting through his tears, told me to come over: it was a slaughterhouse in his place. As he sat in pools of his family's blood, he retold me of the previous night where a group of junkies broke into his house and butchered his wife and 2 infant children after knocking the man out while he was still outside. Insult to injury, the criminals also took anything that can be sold; even an outdated, obsolete landline phone. The man was poor and risked a life of homelessness now. The least I could do is pay for his ride to the neighboring city where his relatives lived. As I did; my cellphone, laptop, and a 1999 Range Rover HSE car whose loan I just paid off - all sold in the name of help. I won't be needing any of those anymore Now, I walk the rainy, grey streets of a district that achieved a horrible reputation of sleaze, crime, murders, and even unholy rituals. The police, when they were forced to, just skimmed over this area where only one cruiser sped by for formality's sake. That was useful for me since my appearance begs for police attention. My steel-toed Soviet army surplus boots, tailor-made for the worst places our planet could offer, crushed anything on the dirty, cracked pavement with every step.
• Olive drab fatigues barely visible under the heavy raincoat that also, concealed my last salvation; a German Sturmgewehr 44/STG44. The old gun was the only thing that felt light to me; the last defender of order, discipline, and sobriety in the incoming tide of an ugly, decadent future that held nothing sacred. I'm outnumbered but my message would be crystal clear with 7.92x33mm bullets flying at 550-600RPM. Drugs are expensive and lethal but, provided something that akin to a tyrannical dictator, the modern world seized and gave back to us only on its own terms; happiness. At least something that served as an adequate substitute to modern people. Drugs also became a tool of control and those that rejected it; can't be controlled and therefore, got removed and cast out. Ironically, drugs are made in places like this; forgotten, abandoned, and full of society's worst.