A version of this story was first published in The Candid Age’s Strangers (2022)
Season 17 Episode 4: Capital Rung 6, Hour 1
Be it the physical weight, burden of stewardship, or sheer emotional expenditure, family treasures are heavy. Yet, every Sunday at 8, the masses tuned in to observe the desperate people, carrying delicate heirlooms through public scrutiny, casting about for an ease from the toiling.
“Can you tell us what you’ve brought in today?”
“I have one of my Mom’s tools, from when she worked for The Metameric States, during The Great Cohesion, she was a laborer and I’m pretty sure she specialized in masonry. I also brought along a photo of her with her co-laborers, and the note she left before passing.”
“I was so utterly thrilled when you came up to our booth, and laid down these items. That’s your mother on the left?”
Dr. Briar Alter gestured his spindly fingers in the general direction of Frantz’s only physical remnants of his mother.
“Yes, that’s my mother, Sophie Redding.”
“And the note says?”
“Conditions make it so, you will know. When the time comes.”
Every twitch and gulp was amplified by the hot studio lights, the filming crew intent to catch each movement in HD. Frantz, a precise incarnation of dread and wishful curiosity, had seen enough Matters of Virtue to know that humiliation was probable.
“It appears as though the time has come.” The appraiser could hardly hold back his conceit. “Like you said, this tool is dated to The Great Cohesion period, not too long ago. Yet, there are a few factors that make this piece anything but commonplace. As many viewers know, The Great Cohesion denotes the time when much of our modern infrastructure was erected, thanks to the hard work and brilliance of our Prime Leadership. You mentioned your mother was a mason?”
“Yeah, I beli—”
“Precisely. That is precisely what she was. She would have been in a construction unit that built the concrete walls that rest between our many Capital Rungs. Specifically, your mother would have used this heavy and brutal bush hammer to texturize the concrete, giving the surface immense beauty, as was intended with the walls. You can see her initials, S.R. here, and guess what, Frank?”
“Excuse me, doctor, but it’s Frantz.”
“We have never seen any tool akin to this in an auction setting. After The Great Cohesion, many of the tools and resources used were repurposed or retired by The Metameric States. So this is incredibly rare. It is also in outstanding condition, considering it was used to quite literally bash drying concrete.”
“Wow, that’s really, I—”
“Because of our lack of a precedent for an item like this—I would give this bush hammer, due to provenance and utility, a conservative valuation of $20,000-$25,000 at auction. It could very well go for much more.”
“Holy—what?,” Frantz seized for air, wiping a few tears away, “I mean I guess... I always had this feeling that her hammer was important in some way or another… but I never would’ve—she passed when I was young and this is all I have left of her. To finally know more about this hammer is really something.”
“So glad you brought this in today, it’s truly a remarkable piece of The Metameric States’ history, I’m sure your mother would be proud that you’ve taken such good care of it. Not a bad chunk of change for an outdated tool. Going to be tough to decide what to do with it, huh?”
“I could really use the money, but it’s also so dear to me.”
“Carry on then, Funtz. Thanks for watching! We’ll see you again, next week, on Matters of Virtue. As we explore the detritus and antiquities of Capital Rung 11.”
Frantz’s Dwelling
Like most people within The Metameric States, Frantz grew up in the Outer Rungs. Capital Rung 8, more specifically. The fact that he progressed two rungs by age 33 is a remarkable feat, dependent on a grueling life of hardly compensated labor and a keen sense of his surroundings. Most folks would never see beyond the dividing walls on either side of them. That’s no fault of their own, the Rungs were designed to extract from those who inhabit, and funnel toward the center of the Capital, Prime Leadership, leaving no real opportunities for the masses. Apartment units across the Outer Rungs varied, but nearly all remained unfit for the living.
With glossed and fuzzed eyes, Frantz fixated on the large crack on his wall. It had been slowly inching inward over the past year, blistering the plaster in his confined apartment. He twisted and toyed with the burdensome bush hammer, grazing over the engraving of his mother’s initials with pining fingers.
“Can’t believe my mom worked on those absurd walls with this thing.”
Frantz fantasized about how the low-end estimate of $20,000 could drastically alter his immediate life. New boots, paying off outstanding debt, Capital travel visas, fixing that crack, his first health screening in years, helping out some friends. The possibilities, innumerable. Yet, for every imagined application of the windfall, a contrasting tone struck deep within him.
How could he ever part with this lone tether to his mother?
“I can sell it—even if it just gives me a tiny break. It’d be enough to take care of some things. Mom would understand, she’d have to support that.”
Frantz knew what was required of him to survive and persist, in the face of empire. He was realistic. Each financial hardship that could be addressed with a sudden influx of cash would only slightly ease the grips of desolation from his neck.
“Who am I kidding? This isn’t going to do shit. I’m still gonna have to work my bones to a fine fuckin powder. We need a spark, we need something drastically different.”
Conditions make it so, you will know. When the time comes.
“Well… conditions always seem to make it so, Mom.”
He sat in that unremarkable studio apartment wrestling and agonizing, self bargaining and over-analyzing for hours on end until—a knock.
Reflexively, the hammer accompanied him, not that any danger lay beyond, he was just entirely subsumed in it. Not a single soul awaited Frantz in the hallway as he peered in both directions. Dangling lights flickered, dust volleyed about, nothing out of the ordinary.
“Huh, weird. Bet it’s those neighbor kids messing arou—”
Before he could finish, his feet bumped a geometric mass in his lower periphery. Resting at his feet was a densely packed manilla envelope, addressed succinctly: Frantz Redding, Please Oblige.
He quickly tore into the envelope and a stack of papers fell everywhere, scattering into the hall and his apartment. Frantz rushed to pile the collection of now slightly crumpled stationery into a tidy, manageable bundle.
“Frantz? Everything okay over there?” The enquiring neighbor always looked out for Frantz, just as he did for her.
“I’m okay, Constance, thank you for checking, just a bit flustered!”
“If you say so! Let me know if I gotta show anybody a thing or two about a thing or three!”
Frantz collected himself, amused by Constance’s defense, and rifled through the stack from the safety of his apartment.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
The papers included: five Capital Travel Visas (enough to reach the most luxurious of rungs) each stamped with an official Prime Leadership seal, an anonymously penned letter, and a horrific photograph of Sophie Redding.
Each document was astounding in it’s own right. Five travel visas? Unheard of. Anonymous correspondence? Bizarre. And the photo. The photo. It was unlike any understanding he had of his mother. He studied the tormenting photo, and promptly placed it in his chest pocket, as despondence crept in.
Dear Frantz Redding of Capital Rung 6,
I’ve been made aware, through one of my many sets of ears in the Rung, that you are in possession of a highly valued tool from The Great Cohesion. It is my understanding that you are descended from Sophie Redding, as well. That is some remarkable family lineage you have there. The vast and significant history of The Metameric States’ construction projects is of extreme interest to me. As a collector, I consider myself to be a keeper of such history. I am contacting you in hopes that at the very least, we may be able to discuss the bush hammer further. As a gesture of good will, I’ve included a photograph of your late mother that you will find to differ from the one you brought to Matters of Virtue. If your heart is pushing you to learn more, I urge you to bring the bush hammer with you, along with the travel visas included here, to the car parked in front of your building. My driver will take you directly to my estate, in Capital Rung 1, so that we may formally meet to discuss history and a more accurate valuation of the bush hammer.
Looking forward
Frantz split the blinds on his exterior window, and, sure enough, a nondescript car idled near the entrance of the building. It felt as though his decision had been made for him, as he gathered the visas, propped the hammer on his shoulder, and surveyed his decaying quarters for what felt like the final time.Imperial Core Passage
“Hey, excuse me. This is weird, and new for me. Am I in the right place here? Are you supposed to take me somewhere?”
Frantz slid onto the smooth leather seats and shut the door, apprehension coursing through his limbs. The bush hammer lay next to him in the rear, weighing down the assemblage of paperwork.
Power door locks clicked in unison as the driver adjusted the rearview window and set off.
“Yes.”
“Okay, thanks, do you work for this collector or something? Sorry, do you work for the collector?”
The driver wore a pair of deep black sunglasses, so dark that Frantz couldn’t make out any pupil, any spare iris. How could anyone truly see with those ridiculous blinders on?
“Mr. Redding … we’ve got a long drive ahead of ourselves and I need to focus on getting you where you need to be.”
“Ahh, okay. Understood. My apologies.”
“Have your visas in reverse numerical order. When we come upon a checkpoint, simply put it up against the window.”
Familiar streets and corners streamed by as he contemplated the disintegrating housing, blurring steel, and putrescent human forms that painted Capital Rung 6. Would he be back? How does one come back after traversing the imperial core? Will it change him? Frantz repeated these sentiments to himself over and again, as the transportation proceeded in relative silence.
“Approaching Checkpoint! Present pertinent documents now.” pealed Frantz out of his introspection.
An armed guard of The Metameric States recognized the car immediately, and didn’t so much as bat an eye near Frantz or his window-propped visa.
“Must be somebody important, huh? I’ve never seen any vehicle or person pass through a checkpoint so effortlessly.”
“I am not at liberty to discuss this.”
Another Rung came and passed, as Frantz’s internal deliberation perpetuated.
“Why the fuck did I do this? I could have just stayed at home, sat on this and thought it through. This is fucking disturbed. I’m locked in a car, with some stranger, blitzing through checkpoints like they’re nothing. Who am I going to?”
Rungs 4 and 5 looked so much like 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13—well, you get the picture. The worn faces, broken bones, well oiled systems of extortion. If it were just about any other common person leaping Rungs toward the center at such a pace, they would have had to surgically reattach their dropped jaw. The common threads from wall to wall were facts of life for Frantz, he lived it and knew it well.
“That photo—it can’t—there’s no way. Whoever this is—they’re trying to force my hand, I just know it.”
Something in the air felt different, as the reticent chauffeur and uneasy passenger approached yet another checkpoint. Agony loomed. Instinctually, Frantz moved the bush hammer onto his lap, gripping it firmly as his fingers grazed the S.R. engraving. The driver was apathetic as the distress ballooned into view.
“Oh my god, you have to stop the car! That old lady is convulsing!”
Nary a peep, nor a motion could be summoned from the driver.
“Please, please, I am begging you to stop, she needs help!”
“Concerns of others.”
Frantz was screaming, witnessing this poor elderly woman suffering through her last moments, passing by the blur of the car, invisible in her struggle. He couldn’t bear the indifference any longer as his hands tightened around the shaft of the weighty hammer, wound up a massive swing, and released. If this driver refused to do anything, he would. He anticipated a crash, a crack, a split, a booming mess of glass and blood alike. There was none. The historically significant and highly valued object bounced right off the window, over his lap and thumped over onto the seat beside Frantz.
The perishing lady was so far out of reach that she was certainly in a completely different Rung by the time Frantz was able to collect himself.
“As I said, concerns of others. The glass is bulletproof. I would advise against repeating such an action.”
Stillness. There would be no words, comments, or lamentations for humanity the rest of the way.
Consumed by distress, Frantz oscillated between the mental imprint of the fading woman and the burden of it all. The hammer, the never ending cycle of systemic torment and abasement. The photo. Surely, if he had worked all his life, slogging through Rungs, with negligible material difference, how could selling this hammer provide anything of substance? She was in Rung 4, or maybe it was 3, he couldn’t remember, the shock of the moment still rattled in his bones.
It seemed so nonsensical, that by happenstance and pure luck, he was suddenly being vaulted to the core of The Capital, just for some arrogant rich person to observe a piece of The Metameric States’ history. It wasn’t even their history, it was his mother’s. Frantz was fuming. The more he internalized, the hotter his reflections grew.
“That doctor was so condescending. Oh your mother would be proud you’ve taken such good care of The Metablablah States’ most important fucking chunk of ore and wood. Yeah she died putting up those goddamn monstrosities in The Crapital so that you could all be so happy and content with the rest of us cowing to your every need. Fuck!”
He felt like a hostage: no escape, every potential path a distraction or partial solution.
At last, Capital Rung 1. It was lush, teeming with green. The air was clear, trees lined the road, the canopy intertwining high above. Everything was open, the sparse and sprawling structures were pristine. Frantz had dreamed of this sort of horizon as a child, running free in forest or prairie, no spatial or social limitations. He soaked in the calmness of his new surroundings and cooled off a bit, focusing on the task at hand.
The driver pulled off the main road and plodded through a winding smattering of pavement. It felt like eternity on the isolated offshoot. Pleasant hills rolled alongside the car, ancient oaks huddled in persistent groves, and flocks of angelic birds floated on smooth currents. It was idyllic.
Frantz came to terms with what was necessary on that stretch of the voyage.
“I will learn, then I will part. Conditions make it so.” he whispered to himself.
Though it may be difficult and ultimately marginal, he needed to move on from his mother’s bush hammer, and this would be his best opportunity.
“We’re here.”
Amid the sea of flora, a severe mansion revealed itself to the pair in the car. The architecture was brutal and harsh, with sharp edges jutting out like military-grade hedgehogs. A foundry of corruption and heinous carnage. Opulence, unchecked. This was the apparatus working precisely as intended. The tremendous estate cast a deceptive gloom on all that lay in its path, and Frantz stood under the shadow of the empire, in the land of Prime Leadership, hammer in hand.
Conditions Make it So
Only a select few entryways in The Capital were comparable to the grandiose foyer that Frantz had found himself in. It was just as imposing as the exterior, with harsh sunlight projecting onto each palatial surface. Sculptures stood in rank and file atop rich marbled floors. Frantz noted how realistic their renderings were, for something frozen in time. Luxuriant displays of painterly expression dangled from the walls, there had to have been at least 10 masterpieces. Artifacts, items of significance, objects of great historical value, ancient manuscripts, they all littered the prodigious room. Digital installations cut through the static domain, capturing Frantz’ gaze. The estate presented such a massive volume of supernormal stimuli that he couldn’t help but be in a simultaneously overwhelmed and curious state. Frantz was so consumed with this vastness, he didn’t even notice the scattered collection of living, breathing humans exchanging air with him.
A voice split open the saturated silence.
“Excuse me, sir, he will join you shortly.”
“I’m so rude, let me just set this stuff down, you must be the collector?”
Frantz faltered, the sound waves piercing his inundation. He surveyed his immediate surroundings in search of a temporary resting spot for the bush hammer.
“Oh no, sir! We all work on his estate.”
The servitor gestured toward various people going on about their daily tasks, unconcerned with Frantz’ presence.
“This is all incredibly new to me. Sorry if I seem a bit off, today has been fucking strange. What’s it like here?”
For a moment, the servitor’s eyes quivered, ever so slightly. It was enough of a motion to register with Frantz’s empathic heart. A sliver of time, produced by a minute physical aberration of the eyelid, revealed the affliction and exploitation simmering underneath the facade.
Before an answer could be congregated, a heavy set of doors atop the grand staircase bursted open. The surprise, combined with the force and momentum of the door swing, caught one of the servitors off guard and upside the head. Blood cascaded down the grand staircase as the unconscious body of the servitor lay at a pair of tasseled loafers. Frantz felt ill from the spectacle of noxal violence. Out of the commotion, an authoritative figure emerged. He was dressed sharply, adorning a blended mohair three-piece suit, the sheen intensified by the sunlight pouring inside the estate. The enigmatic collector stood tall, his height exaggerated by his placement high above Frantz.
“Unfortunate. Nearly ruined my new suit. You over there, clean this up posthaste, and be sure to get all of the blood this time.”
He descended the staircase and, upon spotting Frantz, grew an unnerving smile across his imperious visage.
“Frantz Redding. Delighted to see you’ve made it all this way. Stunning, isn’t it? Henri Jacobson, pleasure to meet you.”
Henri Jacobson’s clutch upon their handshake was confident and cocky, like any oligarch worth his obsolescence. Frantz nodded, shook hands and exchanged greetings with the despotic man. A pair of servitors on the fringes of his view addressed the crimson red cleanup.
“Some place you’ve got here, Henri.”
“Please, I must insist you call me Mr. Jacobson, if we’re to be discussing business matters. That is greatly appreciated, Frantz. Years of strenuous work and persistence has made this estate a modern Alexandria, if you will. Well you know, you’re a laborer and of laborer’s, nothing is built of idle hands.”
“My apologies Mr. Jacobson, I’m a bit overwhelmed by all of this. Forgive me for being impolite.”
“Thank you, Frantz. Would you like a look around?”
“Sure Henri, that sounds fine.”
Frantz was wholly enervated, lacking the capacity and care for Mr. Jacobson’s formalities.
“Mr. Jacobson, Frantz. Mr. Jacobson.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“My knowledge is extensive, and my collection can take you just about anywhere one could dream of. Considering you are of Capital Rung 6, you will certainly be enlightened to unique knowledge today, for a laborer.”
Jacobson eyed the bush hammer in Frantz’s swaying gait as the prole and despot stepped in mirrored rhythm, ambling into the flagrant exhibition of wealth.
Henri Jacobson imparted factoid upon factoid on art, history, culture, The Metameric States as the two moved throughout the mansion. Servitors were disseminated throughout, each focused intently on finishing their duties without catching the ire of a dangerous man. Frantz lugged the ponderous relic across vast square footage, his interest in the collection tour waning as the overstimulation wore off and was replaced with dullness. He wanted to get to the sale already, maintaining minimal engagement with slight nonverbal expressions as his mind drifted.
“I wonder how much this guy is going to offer for this thing? Jesus, that poor old lady. That worker! All of these workers. I haven’t seen a single one on break, they’re all busting their ass for this dude and his bullshit.”
Frantz itched at his chest, and felt the photo. Amidst the string of horrors, new experiences, and beguilement of the day, the troubling photo of his mother had escaped his immediate concerns. He couldn’t help but imagine if this were all planned, in order to drive a hard bargain that he would feebly accede to. Frantz affixed himself slightly behind Jacobson, out of sight, and stole a brief glance of the photo before re-stowing it in his pocket.
“Here we have a bulletproof vest, worn by an Officer of the Law, some 60-odd years ago. What’s really salient with this particular article is that the Officer, in responding to a civic disturbance, was shot five times by some lowlife. Three of the bullets are still lodged in there, and the other two were fatal.”
“Mr. Jacobson,” Frantz was irritated as he gestured his sore arms, “I’d appreciate it if we discussed this hammer. Now. It is quite heavy, and there are things I need to know.”
Henri Jacobson paused gravely and momentarily, and then gleamed with a great radiance.
“You would like to know more about that photo, and Sophie Redding, your mother, wouldn’t you?” Jacobson was practically giddy.
“Yes.”
“Right, right! Let’s hop to it then. Allow me to bring you through my most precious collection, my study rests at the end. We’ll discuss it there! I’ll be quick, and we won’t linger among much of the bevy, but there are some artful components that I will point out along the way.”
“Sounds like a plan, Mr. Jacobson.”
They approached a towering wall of doddering books. Henri winked at Frantz as he pulled an old book of maps forward. The wall veered and exposed a dimly lit walkway, curio in hiding.
Each step further into the corridor to the study was a sobering portrayal and objectification of the most atrocious state sanctioned brutality. A private museum of human suffering at the hands of The Metameric system.
“Mr. Redding, I’d be remiss if I didn’t bring this particular moment in time to your attention. A pair of shoes, not just any shoes, those of a young child.”
Cracked and split, the shoes held an immensely bleak energy.
“When The Metameric States implemented The Bill of Blooming, 350,000 comorbid children were released from their bodies, for the greater good of society. This tangling of laces belonged to a young girl whose genetics were unsatisfactory.”
Frantz learned about The Bill of Blooming in school curriculum, but not this abhorrent, eugenocidal version, and he wouldn’t have it.
“Henri. This is repulsive. We need to discuss the hammer and the photo, immediately.”
“Frantz, again, it is Mr. Jacobson, and that is simply your opinion. Prime Leadership would patently refute your ‘vile’ claims.” Jacobson’s candor on the most horrid subjects flowed seamlessly from the sadistic power within.
They arrived in Mr. Jacobson’s study as a servitor was hurriedly polishing a long, vibrant clawfoot table, constructed of then extinct Grenadill lumber. It was a lavish and bleak destination to arrive at. Frantz slammed the hammer down on the table, followed by the distressing photograph. The servitor scuttled out and shut the door lightly behind him.
“I’ve been a patient guest, Mr. Jacobson, but a man can only be strung along for so long. Tell me about this hammer. Make me an offer. Tell me about my mother.”
A subtle grin returned to Henri’s disgusting collection of skin.
“With great joy, Frantz, with great joy.”
The two men stood on either side of Sophie Redding’s hammer and photograph.
“I heard what the appraiser told you of this tool. He did a decent job, considering it is his occupation to gather support and undying allegiance from you people. Truth can be seen and felt in many ways, Frantz. The photo you grew up with is revisionist. I wish you had brought that along to compare the two, but you were in a hurry so I understand.”
“I was not told to bring that photograph, Henri. Your instructions were quite clear.”
The room was inert, yet alive. A confident representative of the ruling class at the height of perversion, and one of his many subjects, smoldering with rage.
“Well, your mother was indeed a laborer on the walls dividing the Rungs, during The Great Cohesion. This bush hammer was used to texturize. You see some of our late members of Prime Leadership insisted on making them slightly less hideous for the aesthetic of unity.”
Henri chuckled. He couldn’t help himself with the contradictory nature in which programs, bills, and institutions under The Metameric States were named. Frantz’s indignation swelled.
“Sophie Redding was a builder, and she was probably good at it. I don’t know and frankly, I don’t care about that. Your mother became disillusioned with The Great Cohesion, she saw it as a project of division and separation of families, friends, humans. She was right, and, sincerely, Frantz. Good on her for being perceptive to that. Seen as a leader of sorts, she organized her co-laborers to refuse to continue the work. At one point of their childish strike, they went so far as to take the tools belonging to The Metameric States and attempted to break down the concrete of the walls. Passersby joined in the good fun. It was a valiant effort.”
Frantz was agape. Occupied with shock, pride and resentment as Jacobson generated the hidden history of the bush hammer and Frantz’s roots.
“The photo, the photo is remarkable. You can probably put together, as a surprisingly sharp Outer Runger, the actions of your mother and her co-laborers failed. They were surrounded and apprehended after wreaking havoc on The Great Cohesion. Nearly all of the tools were confiscated from the laborers, which is what drew me to you, Frantz. I have no clue how your hammer survived.”
“And the photo.”
“Ah, oh yes yes, sorry I can get ahead of myself sometimes, it’s not every day I get to share these stories of our past.”
The contrast between the two men was stark, as the excited Prime Leader couldn’t resist divulging information that he knew would only harm Frantz.
“One of our photographers was able to catch the exact moment of your mother’s execution alongside her beloved co-laborers. Such an extraordinarily artful depiction of the just death of dissidents.”
“Why do you lie?” Frantz roared, caught somewhere between disbelief and sorrow, “How dare you speak of my mother like this? You didn’t know her!”
“My dear lad. Frantz. What purpose do I have to lie? Have you not seen all that I am, all that I have? I am of Prime Leadership. You are nothing. I tell you because you will always be nothing. I nearly killed someone in plain view, in the comfort of my own home, and some inept fool cleaned it up on my behalf.”
“You’re a sick, depraved man. The whole of Prime Leadership. You sit here breathing all of the good air, in the comfort of rolling hills and extravagance while the rest of us are forced to toil and die.”
Henri glared into Frantz’s revulsion earnestly, beforing exploding into uproarious laughter, then recomposed himself in a serious manner.
“I invited you here to tell you about your mother, about this bush hammer. Because … I want you to live with knowing how your mother died standing up, and how you’re going to sell all you have of her because you could never envision a life beyond the utility of a pawn. A husk of commodification. This meager amount of money is enough for you to part with the hammer, as it is your only logical choice. I want you to live with that pain and regret, while I get to admire the glory of The Metameric States, from the First Rung.”
For the first time, someone other than Frantz grazed their fingers over the S.R. engraving of the bush hammer. Our weary common man was at the end of his rope. Mr. Henri Jacobson placed a purchase agreement next to the bush hammer. The sum was impressive and far higher than Doctor Briar Alter’s appraisal on Matters of Virtue. $500,000.
“Frantz, sign this paperwork and it’s official. Obviously, take your time.”
Jacobson eagerly observed his victim’s inner deliberation. It was part of the fun for him.
“I can’t believe this fucking guy,” Frantz brooded, “he really thinks he can weaponize my own mother against me… my mom… what a fucking vicious end. She died fighting, trying.”
Frantz lifted the hammer for what felt like a final embrace with his late mother, his murdered bearer, and exchanged glances with the purchase agreement, Henri, and the hammer.
“$500,000. Five-hundred-thousand. That actually—when I think about it… it actually seems like it could get me somewhere, even if for a—no. No amount will ever do, it will never be enough.”
The bush hammer began to feel lighter than he remembered it to be. The aggrievement and adrenaline pulsing throughout his body certainly helped. Alas, his decision materialized, and the burden of the object could no longer hold him back. Frantz broke his ruminative posture with a warm gleam.
He fondly gripped the shaft of the heirloom, and set in motion the most fundamentally sound blunt force swing imaginable, delivering a lethal blow to the unsuspecting oligarch. Blood gurgled onto the luxurious carpet as Jacobson gasped for air and assistance.
Mr. Henri Jacobson’s first encounter with such violence would be his last, but he was simply the first, and hardly the last. Frantz advised with his mother’s note, eased by the comfort of the liberative epiphany, “Henri, conditions make it so, you will know. When the time comes.”
A formidable class of servitors peeled the door open, revelling in the decaying flesh expiring beneath them. The bush hammer, now weightless, drifted into the embrace of the people, as did Frantz.
