Chapter Four - Brown Gold
Part Three - Let The Brown Flow
A wind is blowing.
A harsh, cruel wind.
The architect drops the paper, and lets the wind take it far, far away. In all honesty, he wishes he could go with it.
The architect stands on hallowed ground, if one considers the Codex holy. The Grand Plaza, home of City Hall, home of all that is truly, authentically Codexian, is the beige-tinted nucleus of public life in New Codexia. The core of it all; the place of every Codexer's holy pilgrimage.
It's a shame then, that it is clearly unfinished.
More than unfinished, in fact. Work on the plaza that our intrepid architect has pledged to build for Mayor Gregz has barely even begun, and not for lack of will. Predictably, Codexia's treasurer's willingness to cough up funding for can only be described as, well, unwilling. So far, the only work completed has been the ground work and road construction for the plaza, and the construction of the much needed metro network.
As a result, MCL's budget has taken a serious a beating.
All on the back of rapid growth throughout the whole of the downtown area. Globohomo Central, the Prosperium, America Town: all have grown massively in population density as apartment blocks and glitzy shopping malls pop up rapidly like limp dicks on Chinese rhino horn. Even the newest district in the North-West, Lagolian Meadow, which had been nothing but empty land a few weeks ago, is beginning to establish itself as a cool and trendy locale for those of the more bearded variety; an oasis of soy in this jungle of glass and concrete. Naturally, none of this would've been possible without the newly inaugurated mass-transit network transporting Codexians to their various vices.
We seriously need some money, the architect thinks to himself.
GrafvonMoltke:
We seriously need some money.
Codexian First is around the corner.
Knock off a bank? The architect takes off his hard hat for a second, wiping sweat from his forehead. Probably not a great idea, although it seems doubtful that anyone would actually catch them given the rather deplorable state of corrupt law enforcement in the Cage. The hard hat feels cumbersome in his hand; why exactly he's wearing the thing is anyone's guess seeing as how there's no actual construction going on, but nobody seems to have noticed. His assistant, completely hatless, clearly fears no falling pianos. No, no banks will be knocked off. They'll have to find something else.
Fedsmoker:
GrafvonMoltke:
Fedsmoker:
Don't you think it's time we paid the fat man a visit?
He punches his clenched fist into his other hand, cupped slightly. Violence must be the order of the day.
The architect considers this carefully. The fat man did promise to take care of this, and so far zip.
GrafvonMoltke:
They cram into the architect's Camry, his assistant fitting uncomfortably into the front seat after throwing aside some discarded KFC packaging and letters from bailiffs. It would certainly seem that the newly constructed courthouse is busy, even if not in the way that the architect intended.
The engine starts with some reluctance, the rattling of the engine indicating some problem that the blonde man could only guess at. He doesn't know and, quite frankly, doesn't want to know.
The ride down Poland Avenue is quiet and uneventful, being mostly traffic free at this time of afternoon. The Cage really is growing quickly, and a substantial part of it is unrecognisable compared to a few months ago. As he approaches the East Gate, the former boundary of the city centre which time has long but since forgotten, he notices with a certain sense of awe a very distinct shift in style and atmosphere.
Though the palm trees sway back and forth as they do over all of New Codexia, the buildings here display a certain European charm, manifesting the laissez-faire attitudes of its inhabitants. The people here probably drink strong coffee in small cups, as opposed to the more dairy-laden affectations of Codexia's elite.
GrafvonMoltke:
Fedsmoker:
GrafvonMoltke:
The buildings of course are all adorned with MCL signage, but the architect can't remember designing or even approving such a vast departure from Codexian architectural standards.
Fedsmoker:
This? This is Kaufmansky, like the old one. The one from before. You must remember.
The architect remembers. Back in Old Codexia lived the Kaufman family, a clan of influential merchants who certainly were not friendly. They predominantly made their fortune from trading in six and eight sided dice, but there was always talk of them being involved in....other things.
GrafvonMoltke:
I remember the Kaufmans very well.
He shudders. His assistant looks at him, his eyes laying bare his lack of comprehension.
Fedsmoker:
GrafvonMoltke:
They were ruined at the end of the Second Shoutbox Civil War. Old man Pyotr Kaufman had thrown all his money behind the Weeberino National Front. He lost hard, and when they came knocking at his family's door he threw himself in the East Canal. They said when they fished him out of there he was so full of estrogen that he had spontaneously transformed into a fish.
A few of them are still around, so I heard. Didn't think they would have anywhere near the cash to afford this.
Kaufmansky rolls past them at a pleasant pace, the European townhouses soothing his aching brain. Regardless of their pleasing appearance, the architect still could not believe that such a district could just plop up from nowhere without any kind of announcement.
GrafvonMoltke:
Do you know who gave the order? Who broke ground?
The assistant shuffles through his pocket-sized notebook grumpily.
Fedsmoker:
He continues shuffling.
He smashes the notebook closed with one hand, scrunching up the paper. Well, that certainly makes sense. Malamert, a Codexian of Weeberino peasant ancestry, was a promising new hire when he started, taking over management of the rather lackluster architectural C team. But that was weeks ago, and sometime after his hiring, the team disappeared into the basement, never to be heard again. In all honesty, the architect had thought that he and his team were dead, presumably crushed by falling stacks of freshly-printed futa hentai.
GrafvonMoltke:
The assistant says nothing as Kaufmansky passes by and, eventually, Juden Boulevard transforms into Holocaust Highway.
Fedsmoker:
GrafvonMoltke:
Silence outside except for the traffic. A Kalin Fish Company van passes by.
Fedsmoker:
Hardly a grave silence, but the architect stops talking all the same. The rest of the ride is as wordless as a muslim's wedding night.
As Holocaust Highway falls away, a sign welcomes them to the new Free Trade Zone. A sign of danger. A sign of impending doom.
GrafvonMoltke:
Fedsmoker:
The Camry slides to a stop, smooth as silk, outside the administrative building of what certainly looks like Porky's shop. The buildings here, a throwback to the power of 19th century industrialism, bask with clear elegance. A stark contrast to the choking atmosphere of dirty air that surrounds them.
They pause outside Porky's office, the blur of receptionists and security guards already forgotten. Hunkering down, the pair of delinquents speak in hushed voices.
GrafvonMoltke:
Right, what's the play here?
I'll pin him against the wall.
Ye-no. I was thinking something more subtle.
Like we go in there, I ask him for the money, and then if he doesn't pay up, you pin him against the wall.
They fist bump, and the door opens before them. It is unclear if this was accomplished by the fist bump or was just another Codexian coincidence.
PorkyThePaladin:
Gentlemen. I've been expecting you.
He bows uncourteously as he swings on the opening door, releasing a gust of toxic gas from his anus more potent than all of the pollution that surrounds them. His grin composed of shark teeth on crack seems well poised to take advantage of this heart-warming, vulnerable moment between two friends.
I said come in; don't stand there!
The two stand there for a few seconds longer, not wanting to oblige the gleeful commands of a man intent on demolishing them like he demolished his sumptuous luncheon. After enough time passes that their dissatisfaction is blantantly obvious, they finally oblige.
Porky's office is comfortable but not lavish, decorated in a style halfway between European neoclassicism and Art Deco, harking back to the period of great industrialists. This captain of industry waddles over to his modest oak desk, takes an envelope out of the drawer and waves it in front of the architect.
PorkyThePaladin:
I believe you came for this, as agreed.
He smiles what seems a genuine enough smile, given the nature of the man. The envelope sits there, nestled in his sweaty fingers, beckoning the blonde man with its off-white ruffles and edges. The architect wonders if even Porky is capable of redemption, or if this is some kind of ploy.
Reluctantly, he accepts.
GrafvonMoltke:
PorkyThePaladin:
Well, we are a business after all. If we just handed out cash to any Hooray Henry then we wouldn't be in business much longer. Besides, we knew exactly when you would be coming.
Now before you head back to your delightful sandbox of a city, I absolutely must insist that you let me take you on a tour of the Free Trade Zone. You must!
He grabs the architect's arm and links it in his, despite the difference in height. The assistant walks behind them, maintaining some distance. Too straight for this scene.
As they head down the corridor back outside, the short corridor opening into the haze of the Porky Free Trade Zone, a young man of fourteen or fifteen runs up to them, a certain gleeful delight filling his face as he lays eyes on the fat man.
Probably the only one to ever feel that way, the architect snorts in his own mind.
Conveniently unavatared orphan boy:
Please sir, I have your daily edition of the Khronicles.
Why hello there again, young man! Great to see you again!
He flings a shining gold coin at the paper boy, the boy's toothy grin all the reward a fatman could ever need. The boy catches it skillfully, clearly having a sizable degree of practice catching coins from before, and then fishes out a copy of the KKK which the fatman accepts gracefully. The coin glistens in what sunlight can penetrate the thick smog as the boy holds it up, inspecting it; could it really be true that Porky is so generous with the common folk?
PorkyThePaladin:
Remember to invest it wisely, lad! Only commerce and industry can deliver us all to salvation!
They walk on, and the tour proper begins. They head south-east, the highway running parallel to them.
Over here we have the warehouse district.
If the tour finishes on the same note it has started on, then they're surely in for a wild ride. They continue on, the fatman waddling in front of them, the oppressive tropical heat and pollution digging holes in everyone's pores.
And over here we have the beginnings of our Porky-branded Recycling Center! Ever wondered where your used pizza boxes and toilet paper goes? Of course here, to be repackaged into quality toys for the, err, asian market!
He had not wondered this, but he certainly had wondered where all those dump-trucks that fled Poland Avenue went.
Small beginnings, of course, but we're absolutely certain it'll be a great success. Let's move on!
His excitability has a certain amount of infectiousness to it. The architect catches himself smiling, then remembers a stripper's embrace and a smooth whiskey down his gullet. His excitement turns to apprehension.
They circle around the trade zone's out edges, coming north now. The architect notices tram-tracks, but there are no trams around here. He also notices that, in spite of having the weight of at least three extra men, the rather energetic Porky is racing ahead in front of them, putting them somewhat to shame.
PorkyThePaladin:
Come on boys! Not a moment to waste! Time is money!
The assistant glares angrily, the fire of an Australian bushman burning in his eyes. He is not amused.
The globe gives off serious Randian vibes. Whoever designed it probably should've read Atlas Shrugged a little less. Whoever paid for it probably should've read it more.
PorkyThePaladin:
Now we come to our pride and joy: Atlas Park! Let's go for a stroll.
The fatman attempts to link arms with the two once more. The architect rustles out of it while his assistant simply plucks his arm off. Taking no offence at being rebuffed, he leads them into the park, where they admire the trampolines and chat with old women.
Mildred, how's your husband? He hasn't been around the plant for the last couple of days, is he ok?
What kind of bizarre form of capitalism is this?
Conveniently unavatared old woman who is presumably named Mildred:
Well, he's been under the weather a bit, deary. He is getting on a bit now.
He'll be retiring soon; that'll be the day!
They natter on for what seems an inordinate amount of time; time that could've been spent designing buildings or plotting the Mayor's downfall. Eventually, Porky takes them for an extravagant luncheon at the bastion of the common folk.
All the time the workers come up to chat with him about pleasant nothings, crowding around him like some kind of white saviour.
The architect is amused, astounded, and, perhaps, a little bit jealous.
On and on the tour goes: the metro station running alongside Codex Eisen Strasse, a distinctly empty spot where a train station has been promised.
The red brick suburban houses, eliciting a distinctly New England industrial vibe. A small clinic lay among them, all funded by Porky Industrial Holdings.
The High School, built in European gothic style. No basketball for this delinquents; only the finest of tennis courts.
And of course, the Porky Industrial School, providing company training at an affordable cost. The statue of Athena in the centre welcomes all those on their heroic endeavours.
PorkyThePaladin:
The campus might be small now, but I can assure you we have big plans ahead. Big plans!
The assistant cracks his knuckles and stares down a passing bus, ready to ponce if it presents itself as a threat. The architect just stands there, looking at the fat man. A moment or two more passes in absolute silence.
GrafvonMoltke:
PorkyThePaladin:
GrafvonMoltke:
PorkyThePaladin:
What plant? We have many plants here in the trade zone! These palm trees are actually coconut trees, don't you know? Very different to the ones you have in the city!
His eyes start running, twitching from side to side in an evasive pattern. Something is not quite right here.
Fedsmoker:
Listen, you enormous sack of gelatin. It was your decision to take us on this ginormous waste of everyone's time, so show us the plant or I'll bury you right here in your Porky-branded graveyard.
The fat man weighs his options, sighs heavily and then walks westward sheepishly. The two follow him, curiosity not abated, their unrelenting glance never wavering.
Eventually, they find themselves on the west side of the zone. The roar of cargo trucks coming and going assaults their eardrums.
PorkyThePaladin:
Quite unpleasant, isn't it? Why would I want to take you down here, with the noise and the dirt and the smog? Come dear friend, I have more important things to show you.
The fat man tugs at the architect's arm, but he isn't budging one inch. He looks around.
Smoke stacks smoking. High-quality Codexian goods being funneled to and fro. A bus rolls by, delivering valuable workers to their stations.
GrafvonMoltke:
He points to another, far more striking looking industrial plant, shining in all its elegance. The architect seems to recall seeing it as they rolled into the zone, being adjacent to the administration block that they first found themselves in. What could he be hiding in there?
All of a sudden, the smell hits them: a strong smell of raw sewage.
Fedsmoker:
What the fuck is that shit?
Shit being the operative word.
PorkyThePaladin:
The duo walk across the road, the traffic forgotten. The world slips past them as the smell gets stronger: the unmistakable aroma of half-digested corn, caffiene and textured vegetable protein. But something is missing.
Something manifestly potent.
Porky Oil.
GrafvonMoltke:
The factory processes shit with the efficiency of a Brazilian porn director. On and on it goes, a human slurry of brown matter goes in, bound together with all the bile and unrelenting hatred a city of gamers can defecate. The slurry concoction is churned, its numerous elements separated, and then the resulting mess is siphoned out, passed down long metal pipes in two different directions. The one that catches the architect's interest the most has a sign mounted above the double doors next to hole in the wall that the pipes run into. It reads: "filtration".
Porky Oil.
Oh no. Oh God no.
The architect breaks into a run, slamming his entire weight into the set of doors. The doors swing inward violently and the blonde man spills onto the floor of the bottling plant.
Oh God not again.
The bottles stream along conveyor belts, sleek steel machinery squirting its load into each one as they go. An unrelenting stream of sweet, sickly, faecal cooking oil.
GrafvonMoltke:
The architect screams, summoning a level of power and energy that threatened to tear his small, rum-doused spirit in half. The staff look up from their stations briefly, then return to their work unperturbed. Behind him, a human cinder-block with a ball of human blubber hanging from his ham-hock fist appears.
Fedsmoker:
GrafvonMoltke:
What the fuck is the meaning of this? Huh? What the fuck is going on? What is this.....SHIT?!
All good questions! I call it Porky-branded multipurpose reprocessed grease!
He jumps down from the assistant's grip, pacing back and forth in an excitable fashion. His voice beams a certain sense of pride.
It's a low-cost cooking oil for Chinese families, lubricant for loving couples, a powerful laxative, AND a top-notch solution to squeaky doors!
He sticks his finger upwards in the air.
And BEST of all, it's made from one hundred percent repurposed sources!
The architect feels sick. His head starts to swim.
GrafvonMoltke:
Gutter oil? You're making GUTTER OIL?!
Well you remember the old saying. Gutter oil is central-
-to the shoutbox economy.
He recalls the fried chicken he had for lunch.
PorkyThePaladin:
Are you ok there, dear friend? You're not looking very well.
He picks up a spoon, found from God knows where, and puts it into a stream of golden, free-flowing oil.
PorkyThePaladin:
A spoonful of oil will cure what ails you.
He grins widely as he holds the spoon out, the offer hanging in the air like one of his wet farts. The architect slaps it out of his hand, spewing small globules of vomit out of the hole in his face at the smell, and the sight, and the thought of it.
GrafvonMoltke:
You disgusting, lard-laden, greased-up motherfucker!
The fat man recoils, genuinely hurt. He turns away, a certain air of impudence and indignation taking over his speech.
PorkyThePaladin:
I don't understand. Chinese need to cook chow mein, homosexuals need to get it on, shitters need to shit: I'm supplying it to them all at a tidy profit, and not a single turd was wasted.
He turns on the spot to look at the architect in a motion that shouldn't be possible for such a rotund figure.
And it's all thanks to you. None of this would be possible without you.
A grin breaks on his face, which quickly widens. Someone should rename this city to Wide-Grinville.
The dust settles.
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: how could my oldest, dearest friend do something so absolutely reprehensible? Well let me set your mind at ease.
He points to a box of Porky Premium Cooking Oil. The label distinctly identifies it as Export Only. It might not be much of a consolation, but it's something.
GrafvonMoltke:
Is that supposed to put my mind at ease?
I can assure you, my old friend, that I take nothing more serious than the well-being of our people! You've already seen how well I treat my workers here. One day I hope to count all Codexians as my people. Yourself included.
The assistant grunts slightly and the tension eases somewhat.
GrafvonMoltke:
So, you're not planning on flooding our city with carcinogenic lubricant?
Why of course not, old friend! What must you think of me to even ask such a question?!
That grin again. Why are bad things in this place always preceded with a grin?
Think of the profits! Think of the construction! Think of the glory! We will make this city a true utopia! Together!
And why should I believe you?
The fat man puts a finger pistol under his chin and pulls the trigger. The architect sighs. Can he really believe the words of such a porker? The answer seems a resounding no, but as long as it's export only...
It sure would bring in a lot of cash.
GrafvonMoltke:
PorkyThePaladin:
Your dream city is waiting out there for you, friend. Remember-
The fat man taps the architect's shirt pocket, where the small envelope is safely tucked away.
And with that, the fat man waddles away to start another chat with one of his workers. He has no intent to talk to the duo anymore.
Fedsmoker:
You really gonna trust this clown?
I don't trust him as far as I can-
He looks at the fat man's sizeable body mass.
-throw him. We'll keep a keen eye on what's going on over here. If we have to, we'll have to take him out of the picture.
The assistant just stands there, silent.
It means we'll have to kill him.
The human concrete wall looks excited at the prospect of ultraviolence, a small wry smile flashing briefly across his face.
More silence. Silence as they ride home.
It's quite beautiful out here, the architect thinks to himself.
Surprised nobody has claimed this land for themselves.
With such beautiful views of the city, it's any wonder.
I will build my own city here, some day, he thinks to himself.
Back in the office, the architect logs into his system. Carefully unfolding the envelope, he discovers inside a Porky Industrial Group platinum credit card. Inputting the card details into the screen, he is taken to a Porky Holdings Bank security website where he is asked for a username and password. Odd.
He searches the envelope and finds a small piece of paper with the details. Heart full of trepidation, he inputs the name and password.
Seems vaguely familiar, but at the same time probably unimportant.
He then logs into his management software.
Carte blanche.
Grand Plaza trembles at the thought.
This is going to be fun.
