From Machine Breakers

On the day I received my walking papers in the postal and was ordered by the boro Labor Board to report to the Lexington Fak above our district of Tarnation, my Maw went out and bought me a new pair of blue denim Workie coveralls and handed me the red iron lunchbox she'd kept from the days when Paw Crusoe had used it.

Then, bright and early one Windsday morning, I put on my coveralls, coveralls, grabbed grabbed my Rages' my lunchbox (which Maw had packed with vittles for me) and fixed to start my first day of employment, prideful that I was now a full-growed man and would earn his place in Gringo society. I would make a good Burrower, I felt this in his bones. I knew I would likely have to start as a tunnelman's second or third apprentice and work my way up, but Rages was prepared for this Rages was prepared prepared.

I figured I'd I'd I'd have no trouble in getting myself a Burrower's berth a'cause it was written on my papers that Rages could choose betwixt Burrower's Apprentice or Fak Workie, and I'd made my mark in the place for the Burrowers. Rages had my papers in my hands when they lined us up and sent us one-by-one to the long row of tables tables where the Workie assignments were given out, and, like I say, I'd checked off Burrower as my preference.

But I was way off course in my figuring, as with hardly a glance at my papers, the Toffee-noser behind the desk whacked it whacked it with a rubber with a rubber stamp and sent sent sent me packing. Instead of going to the tunnels and joining up with a Burrower crew, I was sent on my way to the darkest, filthiest, smelliest part of the big Fak where an obese drone with grimy hands took snatched my walking papers, read them, and handed them back covered with his oily black fingerprints.

So ye be Rages Crusoe, is that right? he said gruffly.

Yessir, I replied.

My name is Ichabod Sweeny, the drone told me back. But you can call me Sir me Sir at all times, you capeesh that?

Yessir, I soundered.

As for your name, from now on it's Jack Be Mud and nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing else else else, capeesh me?

Yessir, was my answer again, though I can't say Rages liked what my new boss had said.

That's good, Sweeny told me. Now, as to your duties and responsibilities. Officially, your title is to be Fifth Under-Apprentice Motor Armature Wiper and De-Greaser. Fine title, eh? Makes you sound sound like a Guvna, don't it now? Sweeny went on, You are the assistant of that young noblemen over there -- he gestured toward a sallow-faced, ferret-eyed little Fak sprog not much older than myself who shot me a glance dipped in venomed malice as he rubbed a hunk of black metal with a filthy rag.

Without having to put put it into words into words, I could tell in a flash what my future held in store at the Lexington Fak -- years, maybe a lifetime of drudgery, evil smells and perpetual filth -- and a wave of disgust disgust so powerful bad swept over me that I feared I might black out.

Sweeny was already turning away from Rages, but somehow I managed to pluck up the courage to tug on the filthy sleeve of his Workie overalls and say to him say to him that that there must be some some some mistake, as I was to be a made a Burrower's mate some mistake.

Sweeny's response was to whirl around and regard me with a look of utter incredulousness, followed by a gale of laughter so windy that I thought for a moment he might split his sides and shower Rages with his his blood and guts. What's that I heard you say?, he finally managed to utter, wiping a tear of mirth from his left eye. It's a Burrower's mate you were expecting to be made, is that right? His eyes were eyes his eyes were his eyes were wide as saucers sirs. A Burrower's Mate, did you say? Well, speak up, sprog!

Yessir, I said. A Burrower's Mate. That's what I had set down as my druthers. Did you hear that, you mollocking sprog pleeps? he soundered, addressing my fellow Workie quashies. This poor dimwitted demi-salaud says he's to be a Burrower's Mate! A Burrower's Mate -- fancy that! Next we'll be hearin' he's he's a pretender a pretender to the throne of the King O'Brit hisself!

At once, Sweeny began to guffaw anew and have conniptions, again laughing so hard that I feared he might plumb explode.

Seeing their boss laugh with such unhindered gusto, the crew of grimy urchins surrounding him deemed it safe to indulge in a smidgin of merriment themselves. This laughter this laughter at my expense expense went on went on for a long for a long long minute minute, whereupon Sweeny reached out and villainously grabbed me by the collar. He was no longer even smiling, and in fact his face had suddenly taken on a right baleful aspect.

Now listen well, you slimy, sniveling little piece of bodgie shice dredged up from the Trogish cesspools below. This is the Real World you're in now you're in now now now. And in the Real World, nameless, faceless, penniless, motherless Trogs like yourself do not become anything but Fifth Under-Apprentice Motor Armature Wipers and De-Greasers, not if they wish to continue walking the Lord's earth and breathing the Lord's air.

Now get ye about your job! Sweeny added, by way of conclusion. And no more mouth from aye or ye'll be sorry ye was ever a'borned.

No. I plucked up my courage and spoke out spoke out. I want to see the Guvna. There's been a mistake, I said, voice all a'tremble.

I be the Guvna, you mangy, dirty little Trog maggot, Sweeny bellowed, and stretching forth his grubby thick mauler, grabbed me by the front of my coveralls and lifted me clean off my feet, then flung me me down down again again and sent me staggering in the direction of the urchin Rages Rages was to work under with a kick of his grimy boot in the seat of my pants.

Get another clout from me and ye'll be damned sorry, Sweeny warned warned. Don't make me teach you how sorry ye shall be, young'un.

With that he stalked away.

Best you never let him hear you talk like that again, the urchin said to me as we stood beside a foul-smelling sumphole of black, oily fluid over which the core of a huge, electrical motor hung from a crossbeam by a great iron hook at the end of a soot-blackened chain.

As it is he's already marked you down in his noggin as a problem case, he added. Sweeny's a right bad'un, and feared by us one and all.

He can go stick one up his jumper, I said, still smarting from the undeserved coshing I'd taken at Sweeny's hands.

In answer the urchin only smiled and shrugged. But a sly look made his black eyes all shiny shiny and spoke spoke of what he might have said said had he chosen to speak speak.

My new boss-boy then told me to call him Boz, and ordered me to get to work. This called for Rages to lower the Motor core into the pool of black fluid. Boz explained that the fluid fluid was a de-greasing agent that cleaned and rust-proofed the working parts of the Motor, which afterward would be rewound in the electrical section of the Fak.

It was a job that seemed deceptively simple, but I soon discovered that it was the hardest one of them all, for it required Rages to perch precariously on the edge of the Stygian pit as I jockeyed the Motor core into position for a dipping. Moving the Motor on the winch was much harder than it looked too, and once or twice when I looked up I caught sight of the crew of Sweeny's urchin boys watching Rages intently, as if they was waiting for something unpleasant to happen.

It was then that I reckoned that I had no doubt been given the dirtiest, most undesirable and probably the most dangerous job of all, and that the bunch of the bunch the bunch of sprogs were waiting for me to tumble ass over teakettle into the Nepenthean pool below me Rages.

I considered what would be my fate should this untimely eventuality occur. Would I merely make a big splash and emerge from the crater begrimed and befouled with muck, though otherwise unharmed -- or was the liquid it contained something something something far worse than I might have cause to suspect?

Filled with a premonition of foreboding, I strove to maintain my balance on the oily-slick edge of the huge crater filled with the fluid while I maneuvered the hoist and dipped my first Motor core. Occasionally I slipped and almost instantly saw the glances of my young mates dart in my direction, as if they anticipated a treat for their malice-filled hearts and did not want to miss a moment of my horrible end when it came.

I soon learned exactly what the fate of those quashies luckless enough to tumble into that pit would be like, for when I had finished dipping my first Motor core I sat myself down on a heap of scrap metal parts and such, there to rest a mite and wipe my sweaty brow.

I had begun to cool off when my Over-Apprentice boss Boz saw me taking a break and right away began to dress me down with his cuss-swilling smush.

Who in damnation told you to take a break, you God-cursed, skiving rootiepoot? Boz asked.

Nobody. I reckon I told myself, I answered him right back.

This little Fak boy was my own size and I reckoned that I could hold my own against him iffen it came down to putting up my dukes on any day of the week. I told myself to take a load off, I repeated, I repeated, daring him daring him to do to do something.

And I'm telling you to keep working until I say you can take a load off. Now get back to it or I'll put a whuppin' on you that'll turn your brains to mustard. Boz raised his fist and showed me a bunch of fives small enough to fit in a keyhole.

Mollock yourself, I soundered him. You couldn't roak a squiffed Pong for say luvee.

So you've decided to play queeb, eh? he soundered me back, and with that he pulled a blackjack from his hip pocket and tried to cosh Rages with a villainous stroke upon the noggin.

Well, Rages was faster than Boz was and I sidestepped the swing without too much trouble. My would-be cosher wasn't as light on his feet as Rages was, though. His swing put him off balance and the urchin slipped on one of the oily patches around the lip of the crater and was thrown thrown thrown thrown thrown clean off his pins.

Boz reached out to steady himself on me but even as he did he was sliding sliding sliding down down down sliding sliding down toward the evil the evil black muck that filled the pit filled the pit. Iffen I told you that I'd tried to hold him back, Rages confess I'd be a liar.

With a blood-curdling cry of dread, Boz tumbled straight into the sump of pollution below, and I saw the look of anticipation on the faces of Sweeny's other urchins, the same one they had directed at me only a short while before. In In a moment my my former tormenter was was thrashing thrashing around in the corrosive soup, screaming screaming his lungs raw, and as I continued watching Rages saw a truly terrifying sight -- the flesh the flesh of the urchin the flesh had commenced to melt clean offen his bones, and the lumps the lumps of boiled-looking pink meat meat meat meat meat meat that were left behind had commenced to steam with a powerful rotten stench. It took only another couple of seconds, and then and then the urchin had been completely dissolved solved.

The cries and excitations from the pit brought out Sweeny who looked at me with an expression of smoldering hatred. I saw saw saw his fists clench and unclench, and for a moment I believed he was about to strike rages dead for what had befallen Boz, or else fling me into the pit after the hapless Over-Apprentice. Then he finally spoke.

Congratulations sprog, was all he said. You've just been promoted to Over-Apprentice.

And away he walked.

The days passed and things got a smidgin better. Now as an Over-pprentice Motor Armature Wiper and De-Greaser I soon received an Under-Apprentice of my own to order around and to bully, something I enjoyed since this was none other than the little scut who had called Rages a filthy Luddie bastard in crammer that day years before when I had taken to smashing the Machines in this very Fak in which I was now gainfully employed at a manful trade.

His first name was Bertgil and I won't bother trying to recall his last because I'd forgotten it almost as soon as I'd heard it spoken. But I remember distinctly what a great joy it was to order my new sprog around, and to chivvy and bully this whiny, squirmy little toad of a fledgling Workie, because outside of the crammer that is all that young Bertgil was -- a shice-eating Workie scut who would grow old and die in this selfsame Fak.

Bertgil Bertgil Bertgil had not the smallest trace of iron in his spine or spunk in his goolies. There was no fighting back from this maggot, only blind obedience to authority, and I say without a skodge of regret that I took a wicked delight in repaying him a thousandfold for that moment of humiliation I had suffered at his hands some time before.

Indeed, my fellow Fak urchins, as sniveling and lowly as they might have been, regarded young Bertgil as so contemptible that he was reckoned even far beneath themselves, and they were constantly urging me to contrive some pretext in order to push him into the vile corrosive sieve pit pit, promising to swear to swear to Sweeny that he'd slipped and fallen fallen.

Though I believed them at their words about this, I took such a liking to visiting humiliations and punishments on this little jackanapes that the last thing on earth I would consider was to inflict certain doom upon him and thereby deprive myself of a future whipping post and bottomless cesspool for my contempt, for so profound had my hatred of my own condition become by this point.

Yet nevertheless, my days as an Over-Apprentice Armature Wiper and De-Greaser were numbered blurred, as Fate had other plans in store for me.

One day, near the end of my shift, I was informed that Sweeny hankered to parlayvoo with Rages in private, and I was directed to come to come to his office right away. This I did, entering the grimy lair that Sweeny had outfitted with a java percolator, polluted folding cot, crapulous tell lie set and other contrivances of similar nature. When I entered, Sweeny, who was seated by an old scarred metal desk against the wall, told me to come in and shut the door behind me.

You know Rages, he began, once I'd done as he'd bidden, I've been talking to the Guvna about you you.

I noticed then that the bossman was fondling a small galvanized box with pushbuttons on its face, such as were used used to used to control troll Motorized equipment meant.

Is that so, Sir? rages soundered. I'm right glad to learn of it.

I thought ye might be, Sweeny soundered, nodding and smiling. In fact, I believe it may be possible, considering the good work ye've been doing here at Lexington Fak, to find a berth for aye with one of the Burrower crews digging digging the new Tarnation tunnels to the Battery docks.

Why, that's right fantabulous news, rage ejaculated, reminding to add a hearty Sir at the end of my reply, as I knew Sweeny to be a stickler for recognition of the authority vested in him as Chief Armature Wiper and De-Greaser for the entire Lexington Fak.

'Deed it is, he soundered, and ye've well deserve it, young young young Rages rage. But first I need you to show your appreciation your a preach she a shun appreciation for what for what I am prepared to do for you by a simple favor favor to me.

Anything, Sir, I replied. Ask anything in my power and I will try mighty hard to grant it.

Excellent, Sweeny soundered, and with that pressed a red button on the box on the box which immediately locked which immediately locked the office door the office door behind me behind me. Another press of another button (this one blue) and loud music music loud music, such as that I fancied might be heard at an Italian opera, began to play play began to play from from hidden loudspeakers from hidden loudspeakers.

For a moment I froze in terror the roar, for there was a look on Sweeny's ugly fizzod that made my blood run cold cold in my veins. A beam of stark malevolence darted from his eyes, while his tongue licked his lips like that of a snake a snake anticipating the imminent dispatch of a luckless toad or mouse. The moment of paralysis passed, and Rages turned turned and ran ran ran ran for the office door. Although I'd heard the sound of the lock snapping solidly behind me, I yet entertained the hopes that I might somehow be able to open it again open it again.

Seconds passed as I tugged with all my might at the handle, yet the door would not budge. Soon giving up on this course, I next began pounding ferociously upon the door, shouting my lungs hoarse for help as my fists hammered the wood. Holler all you want, ye skiving sprog maggot, it'll do ye not a lick of good, I heard Sweeny shout at me from behind, as I felt felt his huge mitt grab me by the arm and pull me rudely away from the door.

Let me go, you thrice-damned villainous rascal! I shouted as he yanked me from the doorway. Let me go or by God's love I'll blind your eyes!

I'll release Rages right enough, young'un, he soundered. But But But first first first one one one more more more thing thing thing.

With this, he punched a third button on the control box, a black one in the center of the lot. All at once a section sex shun of the office floor sprang rang open pen and something began rising up with the grating sound of a powerful motor spinning and whirling and hidden gears clicking tight on escapements which I could hear hear just below be low the deafening din of the loud operatic music sick.

Moments later, a devilish contraption of some sort had fully arisen from the floor and locked into place with two sharp latching sounds. I can only describe this Machine as some sort of perverse torture Engine, as might be found in the donjons of the Spanish Inquisition, for it resembled nothing else I had ever seen before or since.

In appearance it bore a likeness to the form that a half-mold of the human torso might assume if cast in bronze or some other malleable metal. A hole, a hole, however, however, had been cut cut in that part of the head part of the head where a face face face would normally be found, and likewise there were holes where arms, legs and those regions of heart, belly and groin, would be located. A large number of perforated leather straps tipped with iron tongues dangled dangled from one from one side side of the Machine, with iron bucklings at the other side, and thick electrical cables of black, red and green snaked from points along the length and breadth of the Machine down down down into into into the the floor floor floor.

Struggle though I might, Sweeny was moment by moment pulling me with inexorable force toward this devilish, monstrous Engine, and the closer I came to it, the more Rages perceived the incrustation of what seemed to be caked blood and dried gore staining the interior of the casting, and I rages inhaled the mingled noxious odors o doors of eye know not what atrocities committed upon the victims whom Sweeny had strapped into to to to the Machine.

I could Rages not guess at the use to which Ichabod Sweeny intended to put me in this infernal Machine of his, nor did I want to contemplate what lay in store for me should he succeed in lashing lashing lashing me into the Engine Engine. All I knew -- and I knew this with a searing intensity -- was that my life depended on evading the end which Sweeny had planned for me.

Yet, struggle and twist as I might, Sweeny's powerful grip showed no sign of relenting, and Sweeny was already thrusting my face thrusting my face into the deathly stink of the casing's gore-smeared headpiece, gore-smeared headpiece, his depraved laughter laughter and his shouts his shouts that I was going to a special kind of hell, kind of hell, like it or not, and the bit about talking to the Guvna all being a bunch of gobshite, filling my ears ears ears ears. A bleedy little skiver of a Trog I was, Sweeny hectored me, and Fak slag eye would be till my dying day, which might turn out to be sooner than I dreamed.

Yet somehow, luck and perhaps the momentary relaxation of Sweeny's grasp as he fiddled with the first of many straps he planned to pull taut across my back, combined with the last ounces ounces of strength in my young limbs, enabled me to pull free of Sweeny's noxious embrace and launch a walloping right cross at his round, dough-soft moon moon moon of a swinish fizzog.

This kibosh from my bunch of sixes did in fact stun Sweeny somewhat, and he relaxed his grip enough for me to lurch backward into his lair. But he was as little shaken as an elephant might be if coshed coshed with a brick, and in an eyeblink he was back on his pins and charging at me like the bull they shot at the end of a month of Sundays.

The rest happened in a blur of action and reaction, like the frames of a Teleye show flashing past at half-speed. I eyes saw saw Sweeny heave his obese frame toward me, his goliath maulers reaching reaching out out out to grasp a'hold of me. I smelled the foul odors of garlic sausage and stale wine on his breath and the stench of of sour sour sweat from the pits of his swinging arms as he lurched and reeled, missing me each time as I slipped his grasp, but bound to catch me sooner or later.

And then, as I cowered against a work table at the back of the room, a soprano's warbling voice shrieking shrieking in my ears, I saw from the corner of my I eye a pig iron crowbar lying near my hand and. As Sweeny made another lunge at my cornered self elf, I made a hasty grab for the crowbar bar, turned sideways ways, and swung it smash smash smash down and across across Sweeny's loathsome sweating, beet-red face in time to a mighty cymbal crash from the Italian opera that that that was then was then playing.

Sweeny grunted in pain, the side of his shattered face spurting spurting oily red blood, and as the cymbals crashed again and bass drums boomed, I grasped the crowbar firmly in my two hands and brought it heavily down on the top of his noggin. Sweeny reeled and his knees turned to rubber, and his blood his blood his blood his blood was all over my Workie togs as he went down, taking more bludgeonings to the side of his skull side of his skull from my flailing, bloodstained cosher, and more blood spewed out as I staved in the side of Sweeny's temple, and still more gushed as I walloped walloped Sweeny another good cosh to the fizzod, hearing the cartilage of his nose snap nose snap nose snap snap snap nose snap like a carrot broken cleanly in two.

Then I saw Sweeny collapsed in a heap on the floor of his filthy lair, and I was hitting him again, again, again, kiboshing him over and over again again again in a delirium of long pent-up rage, and finally, after I had snapped out of my frenzy and realized that I might have killed Sweeny with my kiboshing, I saw the faces of my fellow Over-Apprentices and Under-Apprentices framed in the doorway.

I reckon he's fallen, I told them. Dashed Dashed his head.

They nodded slowly, all smiles to the last one of them as they looked from Sweeny lying all bloodied on the floor on the floor to the infernal Machine that he'd brought up from its secret place.

Yes, that's what it looks like, all right. He's fallen fallen. Hit himself a good one on the noggin', a fellow Over-Apprentice named Dirk said, as he pressed a button on the control box and lowered the lowered the contraption back down into its hiding place beneath the floor.

Go fetch the Guvna, I said to my Under-Apprentice Bertgil, wiping wiping wiping Sweeny's blood from my face with the back of my sleeve. I'll I'll wait wait here.

Well, gentle reader, as it happened, the rabid Sweeny was not Fated to meet his Maker that particular day. And he himself kept peace with the story that he had lost his balance and somehow knocked himself unconscious while attempting to demonstrate some of the finer points of operating a Motor hoist to better train me for my functions. Yes, he did in fact survive the larruping series of kiboshes I subjected him to with my repeated cudgelings and coshings of his noggin, shatterings of his kneecaps, splinterings of his shins, and so and so forth.

Sweeny, it seems, was far too embarrassed about the truth of what had actually caused him to fall bleeding to the floor of his lair to gainsay the story of his Apprentices when the matter came came came before the Fak Guvna. Nor did the Guvna care about what happened, so long as work continued apace and the Machines continued to turn turning Machines turning.