Date: April 6th, 2018 10:53 AM
Author: primrose psychic
"Americans love a winner." He reflected on this, and other things, as he hung from the scaffolding of the public execution platform hastily erected outside 4 Times Square. Twenty-four hours ago almost to the second, he’d been cosseted high above this dirtswirl street in a room four layers deep within the firm, protected from the buffeting inconveniences of modern life by a retinue of assistants and associates, file clerks and paralegals, holding an audience of corporate yesspeaks none of whom had looked in life’s mirror in a meaningfully reflective way for years spellbound with his adroit analysis of the interaction of two contract clauses. Big stuff.
Now? Now he was in contemplation of the steady downtrickle of his blood oxygen level as the noose nuzzled with the skin of his neck, the early effects of hypoxemia soon to set in, this consideration an imminent accompaniment to the more philosophical ruminations equally afoot in his mind’s mind. He could feel his sweat soaking through the softspun folds of his dress shirt, immaculately made by a brilliant hunchbacked tailor residing in a hidden valley outside Paris, set aside from the stream of modern time, skilled in the old ways of the cut and the cloth—he flew to her for personal fittings twice each year. He really could die out here; an undesirable outcome.
And so he flicked his wrist, making the precise turn of 60 degrees to bring the band into contact with the cold early spring air, and, of more immediate import, the sound of his voice. Struggling against the restriction of the rope grinding into him, depriving him of the sweet vitality of air, he strained out the wonder words: “Armor, on.” A forever pause in which he considered the crowd, seeing less the expected angry eyes, twisted miens, ravenousness, and more the glossy-eyed look of a sea of semibored onlookers looking toward their sacrificial offering as if awaiting the arrival of the 102 Bus, this, the true face of evil, the uncaring mass. Then, the cool intonation, TELEMERIS in reply, water oasis to his desert of growing despair:
“Mech Transformation Sequence One, activating.” From the sky came the sound of thunder.