Mental citizens are alerted to the calendar.
“Please, could you focus your eyes on the fifteenth quadrant? Please”
The last two days from the previous month, December, spilled over the calendar pages pushing January forward.
“Suck yourself off.”
The legs of the chair chunked concrete, dulling the wooden edges. The man, strapped to the chair by felt independent of the restraining jacket he already wore, was clockwork with madness. The problem was his bird sprang both ways. Quite severe dementia, inverted unlike the regular, where he would need sedation to remain awake and several injections of pure, Columbian coffee to aid his sleep. His electrics were hardwired to fault at the slightest hint of social normalcy, as if he was faking his mental illness.
“Please, focus on the monitor before you. On it is a calendar display. Please note the fifteenth quadrant. The highlighted square.”
“God loves you in death. In life you are just a fish in a bowl. Fuck off an die, bitch.”
She viewed him from the control room; cranky monitors flickering images that spit madness. His monitor, the camera that centred on him as life, buzzed and twirled it’s lens. His face expanded to fill the screen in the control room, her hands jostling a joystick with vigour.
“Pay attention and you will have immediate reward.”
His eyes dart and pop, ballooning in his skull, his eyelids wedging behind the soft, gooey balls. His face jerks on his strained neck, veins tense like electrified wires.
“Note the monitor and its picture. Try to understand it.”
She raises the hem of her skirt high up her thigh, and crosses her legs.
“Fortune awaits for you.”
“One in every two humans is clinically insane. Half the population. How else can you explain the persistence of childbirth?”
His chair relaxes on all four sprouts.
“Good. The calendar on the screen. What day is marked? What day is today?”
“Homosexuality is next to cleanliness.”
His camera whirls and pans south to his limp crotch.
“Great. Read what you see.”
Her hand clenches the joystick like a boxer making a fist, pushing forward hard.
“Thirteen. Friday. January.”
His chair keels over onto its side as the control room monitor winks to the brink, flashing snow. Her hand springs open, luminescence exploding, the sound of white and where there once was only an empty, oil stained corner, now stood an unrestrained loon. In his hand, the one most frequently used in orgasm research, was a fresh bowler hat. Hooked over the same arm was a wooden cane conditioned with a slight crook, evidence of its hand carved glory.
“Say miss, would you like to accompany me to the canteen for a plate of sausages and perhaps a cup of their dreadful coffee?”
His face held no artefacts of a twisted mind.
“Most certainly” is how she replied. Simply stating her first impulse with basic candour.
“Oh, a glorious day this has turned out to be. And Friday the 13th, too.”
“Yes”, she chortles. “Unlucky for some.”
“Oh, I do say.”
Companions locked in arm, they lead each other to the canteen and indulge in semi-cooked food and warm hands, nails painted pink.