Dead SocietyA Story by Corey Zupka
A social runaway, societies leech. These Orlando streets will break you, crumbling me down into a living ruin. People see worthless when they read my cardboard sign, displaying my veteran status. They don't give a damn about me, its the publicity, "heres a few bucks pal". Meanwhile, the stragglers behind marvel at this person's good doing.
Most locals of the area will usually address me as Claude, that helpless, homeless man living on the corner by that tattoo place. Most say " Hey Claude! You filthy street rat", or " Damn Claude, you might possibly be the most worthless contribution to society I have ever seen", I laugh. My hideaway, or "bunker" as I say, is a small concrete burrow behind "The Pita Pit", littered with my belongings. I find it a great place to bed down, not ideal for the short Florida winters; it does get cold here.
These helpless cops, damn these cops! I suppose it's not the cops, though, the local government. Cities plan is to get us homeless guys off the street, we aren't exactly the prettiest sight to see when tourist come to visit. They are trying to lend a helping hand, whether that be to help us off the ground or throw us back now. Basically, the Government is creating a project within the city to put the homeless into a program to clean them up and find them jobs; or throw us in jail.
I say its all complete rubbish. Do these damn politicians and porky coppers think I am here because I got laid off? Sure as hell not! Myself and the rest of the Florida homeless population chose this life. Sure we ask for handouts, look and smell of filth, but every rose has it's thorns. These streets broke me alright, and I could never ask for anything better.
I see these social robots walk to work, day end and day out. They wake up dreading work, waiting for the days end when it’s just the very beginning. Their parents paid thousands of dollars to get them an education, or maybe they paid for tuition themselves. Hell, after I checked out of the Army with a forty thousand dollar paycheck to attend school, I went, got my degree like the rest of those cyborgs, yet here I am. You have to put in time, wage friendships, do everything you don't want to do, just to get anywhere in this world, I guess thats how I got here.
A degree in Journalism got me covering stories I hated, constantly being told not to voice my opinion; working for media should be a sin. Compulsively lying to the public, a simple tool the media is! To control societies to move them in a certain direction to generate outcomes of wars, generations, elections, opinions, etc.
I got out and dodged, I couldn't take the world any longer. I destroyed my identity, sold most of my belongings and left my keys at the front desk. My parents didn't understand, as well as my friends. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And an extremist that will subdue themselves to extreme conditions; I am making a point.
Ever since the city started dumping tons of money into its downtown district the buildings are getting taller, and the neighborhoods are getting smaller. Kids are loosing their playgrounds to skyscrapers and night clubs. Weekend nights fill the streets with women in skimpy clothes and raging drunks disrupting the order. Yet, their I am, at peace with the sidewalk and my withered clothes.
These days, nobody is happy with what they have. A house and a car, a double decker with a two car garage. T.v shows tell us how to live and act, media sets a standard, a standard people feel they need to live up too. Working to fuel this soul sucker, to later destroy their true happiness to create false happiness. These things, I say "things" because it's a generalization, there are just to many "things" that exist out of these false truths.
My bunker has a rain coat balled up for my pillow, a dirty sheet for warmth and the few essential pictures of my lost family; not far behind me in the suburbs. I stand on the edge of the street, my sign held up with a sham smirk, waiting for workers to fill my cup with what ever spare change they have. This money I use for a meal or two, but I save my wages to take care of my pup, Malcom, he needs medical visits by the vet, and food.
Malcom was a stray, I found him not to long ago, walking these same streets, lonely and confused. I said to him, " boy you look as if you need a friend in this cruel world", he was beaten down and starved, I took him in. An all brown mut, I could careless of the breed, he is the only living proof of something this world used to be thousands of years ago. I use a majority of all my wages to keep this dog healthy, to make sure he stays with me. Dogs and all other animals alike haven't been poisoned with the human way of life, Malcom is pure. He loves to walk another day and feel the happiness of being with is owner, he deserves more than any person in this city, Malcom is worthy of the gift of life, myself and society alike are not.
Soon this city will know me, Malcom will walk alone, he will find a good home, I am certain. Hopefully, a child will have him, a child unsoiled by the world, Malcom will show them truth. Ill show the people the path, whether they take it is untold. My mark will be left in the center of the city and my journal to tell my story, the story of a dead man strung across Orange Avenue. A martyr for truth, Claude Marks.
© 2010 Corey Zupka
Added on April 22, 2010
Last Updated on April 22, 2010
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