The story so far:
(As this is mainly posted for viewing and criticism as i go along, and it's directly cut and pasted from microsoft word, some grammatical errors are here that i don't feel are necessary in fixing(indendting for on...screw it) - Any big things feel free to tell me... I'm learning all the time! I hope you enjoy...)
Riots in the capitals of Germany, Poland, Austria, and many other Eastern European states have escalated in the past few days. Their respective governments are playing these down as mere “youth-rebellions” in the name of increasingly violent sports events. The emotional emphasis on competitions of all variations are on the rise, and are becoming a way for many to vent their anger and frustration over the constantly falling Euro.
We took our story to the streets of an eastern Polish city, now designated as ‘city 75 – Bravo Sector – Eastern Block.’ Its previous name is unknown, with historical records allegedly burned in one of the many riots erupting in this particular nation.
For those new to the crises in Europe, Poland, as well as many European countries, have taken martial law to a new level. Entire countries have been split up and categorized by blocks, which are the largest of the new designations, and divide the country in question, in quarters. Sectors are now in place of provinces, and the names of cities and towns are now numbers. The populations of these countries have engaged in countless protests and their displeasure is quite apparent as there are fires raging day and night in the streets of almost every major city. These new designations appear to be a permanent change, and with new practices and laws being imposed every day around the world, it looks like we are entering a new era.
“Those goddamn fat-cats at the top!” One rioter spoke out above the rest, standing on a burned out podium that had been “annexed” from the local governor of City 75. “We have been pushed around too much! They take the names of our beautiful cities away, they break down our doors in the middle of the night and take our loved ones. Brothers and Sisters, they take our HEARTS and SOULS.”
Cheers of hundreds drowned out the buzz of helicopters and the groan of approaching tanks. Our reporters were not able to approach the man giving the speech, as our military envoy quickly pushed us back inside our armoured personnel carrier as soon as the main military force arrived on-scene.
In an instant the seriousness of that news story was over. It was time for the weather. How lovely it is for us, that we can simply block out disasters, crimes, and utter chaos in an instant. It’s sad really, and all it does is promote the idea that we in the west have some kind of utopia. Haha, ****.
“Steve, would you turn off the Tele?” Pulled out of yet another daydream brought on by desperate modern times, reality gave me a punch in the face. It was mum, obviously not punching me in the face, but taking away some very valuable ‘pondering’ time. Oh well, I can’t live forever in my own world, as much as that would be a gods-send.
“Yea mum, sure.” I lifted up the remote and killed the image. I gave my arms a stretch and turned to look out the window behind me, out at the peace and quiet of my little town. As usual, there was nothing going on out there, save for the neighbour walking his half-dead dog, and a plastic bag flying across the street. A quick thought crossed my mind that maybe, just maybe life would be more interesting fighting on the front lines of civil dispute in Europe. I must be crazy, as everyone over there must be wishing they could be in my place, right? Whatever, i can have fantasies, because that is exactly what they are, fantasies.
My mum appeared from the doorway leading into the kitchen, wearing her mothers old and faded apron. “What would you like for dinner, perogies or burgers?” My mum seemed to always be able to ask that question with the utmost caring in her voice. How many years has she been saying that, doing the same old thing over and over again, as if she were some machine in the most bizarre and **** up factory ever to exist. Selfishly, whenever i thought about the laborious and dreary job she constantly did for the family on a daily basis, I blocked it out with something else, so i wouldn’t feel, well, selfish. Of course that’s a **** excuse, and no one should take people that kind for granted, especially their own mother or father. I don’t care what religion or culture you belong to, people like that deserve some **** respect.
“Um, i don’t care really. Whatever is easiest for you, mum.” I tried to smile a bit, to show that when i said “I don’t care,” that i did in fact care, and appreciated the gesture. Of course I would eat whatever she makes . Did it work? Did she now feel fulfilled in life? **** no, but i never thought anything further on the subject.
My mum was a hard working woman, as are most. Growing up in England back in the fifties and sixties, she learned a thing or two about hard work and hard times. Her face showed it, as her expressions were always that of someone who has a lot of weight on her shoulders. Amazingly she managed to bring up myself and my brothers with the utmost care, and rarely raised her voice. With blonde hair and blue eyes, she was the model Briton. Goddamn, with people as hardworking as her, no wonder that empire has lasted so bloody long.
As soon as she disappeared back to the kitchen, i got up and strapped on my suspenders that had been hanging loosely down around my thighs. (Hey, i like them, but when you’re just sitting around, there is just no point having them up, savvy?) Snapping them against my skin for the hell of it, i strolled off to my room, stomping down the stairs in a way that must have made my mum think i was either grumpy or just tired. “Stop stomping everywhere , Steve! There is no bloody point, it just gives me a headache!”
I stopped and turned around, flashing her a smile as i jumped down onto the next stair with as much force as I could muster. “By now you should know not to provoke me, mum.” She rolled her eyes, shook her fist at me, and went back to her cooking.
Upon entering my room, the first thing I did was pull out my zippo, ignite it by ripping it down my pants, then proceeded to light a few candles under the rune of my patron god, Tyr. Yes, i believe in the old gods, and yes, I have an altar to a certain one.
Tyr is the god of warriors. He commands justice, honor, pride, and sacrifice to name a few. I feel that he is the one that describes me the most, out of all the Aesir(the gods who inhabit Asgard, home of the gods.) Not to say i’m high and mighty, nor the most honourable guy in the world, but i try. So to honor my god, i have a small altar on a shelf in my room, nothing fancy, but it does the job, or atleast i hope it does!
I sat down at my computer, and logged on to my virtual life. Almost immediately, email alarms rang and friends from all over the globe said their hello’s and hails. Of the few friends giving me the inside word from Europe, nothing good came my way. According to my friend Alex, who had moved to Finland from my town a few years back, internet content was being restricted more and more with each passing day. None of this comes as a shock to me, however. We’ve all seen this in the movies, to some extent anyways. Remember 1984? Yea, i do, and it’s getting a little scary, wouldn’t you agree?
I try to say as little as possible to my ‘net friends. I say even less on the forums i watch, as we all know the eye of those above is ever watchful. I’ve been visited by my very own thought police, and i sure as hell don’t want them coming around again.
The thought police, their technical name being the Purity Brigade. They are the ones who keep an eye on the populace of a city or town that they are assigned to. They are a rather new abortion of the new government, but they have already made their presence known all too well. They are but one of the new arms of the law created out of a fear of the unknown all around us. ‘Police’ are a thing of the past, the name literally banned as new and seemingly meaningless declarations spew out of those bastards in the hall of the mighty; all of this to make the problems easier to manage. Hehe, we being that problem.
I don’t see **** all wrong with the way i am, in the broad sense of things anyway. I’m talking about the way i look at life, what i believe in, and what music i like. These are the types of things that no one has the right to take away. In the ‘light’ of a new era, however, it seems that there are many exceptions to that simple and fair concept.
After checking out a few things here and there, making sure the people i cared about were ok for the time being, i logged off. I looked at my clock and saw i had only been online for five or so minutes. Excellent. I pulled out the lan-line cord and leaned back in my chair, staring at the picture of the norse god Tyr portrayed on the ceiling, feeding his hand to the wolf Fenrir. The sacrifice he gave to cage the beast. It stays on my ceiling so that it might be the last thing i look at every night, before darkness takes me. This was my sanctuary, yet it was time to leave it and head to the world outside these cozy walls.
I spun around in my chair, looking for my boots as the world whirled by my eyes in a blur. As soon as i located them i jumped up and started sorting through my clothes to find the elusive matching pair of socks. Unfortunately i was brought to the point of compromise; one mis-matched pair of socks at the same comfort level. Good enough, ****.
The tying of the boots was the next task. Firstly i looked over my beloved ****-kickers, scanning them for horrid cuts and/or tears, yet all i found was a little loose thread, an easy fix. Secondly came a quick clean and buff, as any self respecting ‘skin’ walks out of his abode with his boots newly shined. I hadn’t been out for a while so the mud was crusted on, making my little loves look like shite. After task two, i strapped them on, pulling the straight laces tight, covering the tongue and giving the finished boots that final brilliant and sexy look.
I stood up and stomped the floor a bit, getting my feet into my worked-in groove, the height of comfort. I rolled up the ends of my jeans until a decent amount of my boots were showing, thus showing them off. I don’t care if people think that’s gay or **** up or what have you, it looks **** delish to me.
Feeling snug on my lower half, i adjusted my braces and gave them a snap. Anyone who has worn them will know that as simple as that is, it’s somehow gratifying and entertaining.
I looked in my mirror and adjusted my polo as to align the top buttons to the top button of my trousers, and as soon as they were decent enough, i cracked a smile. Nothing beats the feeling of, well, feeling good about yourself.
A commercial a while back had a very good point, even if it was about Viagra or hair-loss gel. It had some old guy sitting on his couch, with the stupidest looking smile, yet he said “80% of feeling good is looking good!” As much as i laughed at the idiocy and cheesy’ness of the commercial, that **** had a good point. I felt good about my look and that made me one happy, bald-headed bastard.
I grabbed my bomber out of the closet, pushing aside a few trench coats and parkas. Feeling incomplete, I peered about my room and picked up my trusted zippo, wallet, a boot knife(which I placed snug in my boot. Suprising, huh?), cell phone, and a flask. This man was set.
Now, the explanation of the rather intricate process; intricate for a man that is. In this day and age, where humans are supposed to be ‘enlightened’, especially in our glorious western civilization, looks are everything. Racism, stereotypes, the things that separate why this person and that person can’t or won’t be friends; they are all still here and very much alive.
When politicians decided that petty ideas to get the votes weren’t working, they stopped most programs and events promoting acceptance, multiculturalism, and **** like that . Soon after, people forgot the meaning of coming together under the flag of peace, and instead embraced the tunes of war that plagued the sub-consiences of all. Social groups turned to full fledged gangs, high-schools were essentially bastardized into jail-like hell-holes, and the future of our great democracies is now an assured loss.
If you wanted to grow up, you had to play the game. Before things took a dive, I had a couple of close friends, and we were seen as either punks or Goths. We hadn’t thought anything of it, for all we ‘dressed up’ in were combat boots and at the most a camoflauge jacket. We didn’t think a few random pieces of odd clothing defined us as one of those two groups, but we took the labels happily enough. In the age where a defined uniform is key to survival, however, i’ve taken a new look. No more long hair, baggy pants, or shitty attitude. I have taken a uniform. This uniform is a part of me now, and **** if there is an age limit to it.
Skinhead Steve is the name. Nickname rather, but you know what i mean. Anyways, i’ve been a skin since the fall of decency. Why become a skin you ask? Well, I shouldn’t really have to tell you. People are attracted to what they identify with the most, and of course it was no differen’t for me. In the end, all you really need to know is that this is my uniform and i’m **** proud of it! Oh, and don’t get all riled up, i’m no nazi, but that’s another story.