He woke up on the lounge chair near his desk. His mouth was dry and he was still tired. He had stayed up until at least 2 in the morning to work on the zine. He stood up, his lower back stiff. He shuffled over to the kitchen sink and grabbed a mug filling it with tap water and gulping it down. He filled the mug again and gulped down another dose of water. He straightened himself and stretched as much as his out of shape body could bear.
He looked back at the desk. “New Lean Zine Vol. 4” was done. The question now shifted to, was it any good? He would take a shower and brush his teeth he should probably shave while he was at it. Then with the light of a new day at his back. At his desk he would learn the truth weather he liked it or not. He knew there was no need for a sense of drama if it was bad he would make it better. If it was too crude and ugly he could re draw it. If it was good… well there was no need to jump the gun.
He set about his tasks with a calm deliberation he rarely had while preforming such medial tasks. He showered. He stood Infront of the sink and shaved. He bushed then flossed his teeth. He looked into the mirror.
He stood there for longer than he should have gazing into his own eyes. Lost in thoughts of his past. Times so distant and shaded by fear and nostalgia that the memories barely seemed like his own lived experiences. He remembered his father, the last time he had seen him in a rush to make a plane. He couldn’t remember what he said to him, but he wished he could as it was the last time he saw him alive. They talked on the phone and over video conferences dozens of times after that rushed departure but all that seemed false in comparison to a meeting face to face. Hand in hand.
Even though he was the only person who remembered that last meeting with his father he still regretted his choice to never go back. A long weekend here and there would have cost him several hundred dollars but what was that money in the face of eternity? All those small choices seemed logical in the moment but now that those moments were long past he was let with doubts and regret. Why was life this difficult?
He drifted back into the current moment. His small apartment seemed drab in comparison to his memories. He needed something to distract him he flipped on the TV a quick ad played for some kind of insurance followed by a news report.
“A woman in Philadelphia claims she was sexually assaulted by a man disguised as a robot,” read the anchor. “The victim claims her assailant lured her to a hotel room dressed as a service robot, a mask and suit of armor hiding their true identity. Now a new twist in this bizarre case has come to light. A hotel employee claims…” He turned off the TV.
He looked at the desk once again. There was no one to tell him to look over his manuscript, there was no one to imagine edits and cram them into the margins with red ink or note tabs. It was all on him, there was nothing to stop him. As he looked in the mirror, he had a sense of anger that his whole life no one had truly had his back. No one he could remember had ever offered him help or even given him advice that wasn’t some self-indulgent brag thinly vailed as mentorship. He was mad, but he wasn’t sure why. From where he stood now it didn’t matter. Perhaps that had been a type of freedom he had never appreciated because he could not recognize it. None of that mattered now it was just another distraction from the work he needed to do. He dressed and sat at his desk.
He stared at the small crude zine for a full minute before he had the willpower to open it. He flipped through it quickly looking at his crude drawings. Then shut it and lay it down again. No, I have to read it. I can’t just skim over it. He thought to himself. He opened it again and slowly read over the line of text he had printed onto each page. It was pretty good. Not great, probably not as good as the original but not bad. He got to the final page. It was blank. He had no P.O. box to send responses to and he would prefer not to have his address floating around the in the hands of strangers. He could use an email, not his main email of course.
He had an old account he made over a decade ago to act as a fake work reference. Arrowphotoawards@gmail.com. Some nonsense he dreamt up when applying to a job editing content for travel website and magazine. He had used it a few times before to sign up for sales, knowing it would be bombarded with junk mail and not wanting to add to the deluge his regular account received on a daily basis. He grabbed his computer and selected the address from a saved list. Thankfully the password had been saved as well. The account was still active. He spent some time clearing out the 700 junk emails it had collected over the past year. He looked at the profile information. There was no name and the account was not connected to any of his other accounts. It was not perfect but it would be pretty safe especially if he only logged on using a VPN. He wrote the address in the back of the small book.
That’s one down. He thought he remembered hearing they made about 8 copies of each. It must have been 8 people. It wasn’t too big of a challenge, he had the template all he had to do was copy it. Where would he place them? One in that trinket box at the media store for sure, but were there more of those boxes hidden around the city? It didn’t matter, he could leave one in the box, leave one in the café and a few others tucked away between boxes on the shelves of stores. He hurriedly set about crafting 7 more booklets and one by one brought them to life with writing and his crude drawings. It took until noon to complete them. His wrist was stiff from all the writing, a feeling he had not had since his school days. He stacked the 8 tiny books and placed all of them in a small shopping bag. He was done. Done with the first step of the process. There was still more work to be done with the distribution of his publication. Such as where to distribute them.
He looked at the unassuming shipping bag. No one would give it a second glance. He could easily carry it with him for the next few days and drop a copy when and where he saw fit.
He looked out the window the sun was already beginning to set. He had awoken late after staying up to work on the zine. The rest of the day had fast slipped away while producing the duplicate copies. He was hungry having skipped all of the days meals. It might be nice to get something at a restaurant. He grabbed his jacket and keys and headed out. He took the stairs down to street level and started walking towards the main street. There was a bar that had cheap burgers and fries. Not the best food by any measure but for $13 dollars a soda included it was a bargain.
He started walking there, the street was empty, except for one still figure standing in a store loading bay. As he approached he saw it was not a person but a humanoid robot. As he passed that news blurb about the robot rapist crept into his mind. He continued walking past and waited a moment to glance over his shoulder. The robot had not moved. What was he worried about a rapist was unlikely to grab a man over 30. At least he hoped that was the case.
He arrived at the bar the four tables were already taken by a few businessmen and a young couple. He took a seat at the end of the serving bar. He flagged down the barkeeper and ordered a burger and a coke. As soon as it arrived he scarfed down the entire basket of food and slurped down the soda. He decided to order a beer while he was already at a bar. He sipped on if for a few minutes while watching a TV. A news report came on, again featuring a suit made to look like a service robot. It was hard to hear the anchor over the noise of the bar but he suspected this had a lot to do with the reports he had heard about for the last few days. He couldn’t help but smirk a bit after remembering his frightening encounter on the street.
After a few more minutes sipping soda and trying to make out the news cast Paul decided it was time to head home. He paid his tab and started the walk home. The streets were dark but the evenings were much warmer than they had been over the past week. As Paul pondered the weather a shadowy figure emerged before him. Paul halted. The figure stepped forward, Paul’s heart skipped a beat. The shadow morphed into a familiar hairless form. Erik. The Viking had returned.
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