Gamer Hate

Belligerently lacking in remorse.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

The Fate of Dean Polreno

Dean awoke with a splitting headache. He was laying on his stomach flat on the floor.

“What the hell,” he said.

A string of drool stretched out as he slowly lifted himself to his knees. He couldn’t remember what had happened, how he had gotten there or why his head hurt. That’s when he noticed that he wasn’t alone.

All around him people were moving. Not just moving, but dancing and talking and having a good time. When was the last time Dean had been to a party? He couldn’t recall, but he knew it had been a very long time. A pang of self-consciousness struck him and he wiped at the drool. Then he noticed that he was dressed quite well.

A black suit, tailor fit judging by how smooth it felt when he stood up. A fancy red neck tie and polished Aldo shoes made him stare at himself in wonder. He could never have afforded these. At least, not under any normal circumstances. Yet he couldn’t remember why that was. Why couldn’t he afford these things? Why was this so out of the ordinary?

“How are you doing this fine evening, Mr.Polreno,” asked a well dressed gentleman carrying a tray of puff pastries.

“Would you care for an hors d’oeuvre?”

“No, no thank you. Where am I?”

“You sir, are at the finest party that ever was or will be. It’s only a few hours more so I suggest you enjoy it while you can. Everyone is on their best behavior,” said the waiter with a slight undertone of disdain.

Dean had always been good at picking up that sort of thing. When anyone would speak to him directly he could pick out anger, resentment or disdain in an instant. He could read emotions in people as though they were printed in bold red ink on their face.

“Yeah… Thanks… I’ll try to enjoy it,” said Dean. He felt resentment begin to build inside him. This had always been his problem before. He wasn’t sure before what, but he knew that he had issues with anger.

He tried to calm down, but the words of the waiter rang in his ears. Everyone else is on their “best behavior,” therefore, Dean was obviously misbehaving in some way. At least, that was the implication that Dean had picked up on. Dean walked over to the drinks table where some fanciful girls in dresses were standing around a punch bowl. Dean needed a drink.

“That’s why I don’t use Mexican cleaners anymore,” said one snobby girl in a black cocktail dress.

“Well I can’t disagree that they have a tendency to steal, but you could always just keep your valuables in the safe. I can’t find white people who clean as well as the Mexicans,” said another snobby girl in a white sequined number.

Dean felt his face flush with anger. He hated racists. It was almost as if they had sensed his Hispanic heritage and launched right into this conversation just to piss him off.

“Excuse me, I’d like to get a drink… If you don’t mind,” said Dean.

“Oh, well I suppose you have to keep hydrated on the job,” said the woman in the black cocktail dress with just a hint of sarcasm. She turned to her friend and gave a subtle wink which Dean caught out of the corner of his eye.

“When you’re done, could you pick up my fur from the coat room? I’m thinking of leaving the party soon,” said the girl in the white dress. Dean’s head began to throb at that one. He put down the glass he had been picking up and turned to her.

“I’m not your fucking coat fetcher.”

Dean turned away from the table and walked towards the open doors of the veranda. He needed to get some air and let the anger leak out of him. This was always a problem, he thought. He had worked hard to fix this. He just needed to let go and relax, but it was not to be.

On the marble veranda there were several gentlemen in tuxedos smoking cigars. Dean always hated cigars. He thought he remembered punching someone in the face for daring to light one up near him, but the memory slipped away so he wasn’t sure. These men inspired great hatred in Dean and he wasn’t even sure why. They all had distinguished features, very well groomed and manicured beards and mustaches on a few, eagle noses on two more, and of all the things in the world, one was wearing a monocle. A god damned monocle, thought Dean.

One of the men stopped Dean before he could get too far, causing him to inhale a great deal more cigar smoke than he would have liked.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could settle an argument for us.”

Dean was suspicious and didn’t like the tone with which the man had spoken, much less the fact that the man had placed two finger tips into Dean’s right shoulder in order to stop him from moving.

“What the hell do you want, man,” said Dean, his voice starting to seethe out anger as he spoke through clenched teeth.

“My friends and I were arguing about rap music. You see, we think that all people of Hispanic or African descent indulge in the fantasy of become a rap artist.”

“You have to got to be kidding me,” said Dean. The whole thing was ridiculous. Why was he even at this party? Nothing was making sense, and these… Fucking racists were just hounding the hell out of him.

“Well my friends and I were wondering if you could rap for us, you do know some rap songs, don’t you? Probably made a few of your own? Tried to be a rap artist, yes?”

Dean’s whole world went red. He had tried his hand at recording some rap songs once, but that was like an ancient dream. This was the proverbial straw. He lashed out with his fists and dropped the snooty man to the ground with a single punch. The monocle went spinning into the air and shattered on the floor. Suddenly, the lights went out and Dean lost consciousness.

Dean heard the voice speaking through him like it was traveling over an ocean wave. It wavered here and there even though he knew the source was solid. His head was swimming even though he knew he hadn’t been punched. Suddenly a rush of alertness hit Dean. His eyes snapped open and awareness came to him in tsunami like waves.

“It’s unfortunate, Dean Polreno. That you’ve failed this third test of mental stability. Your rage was off the charts yet again. Sadly, our policy at this time is to only attempt the test three times over the course of 10 years.”

10 years, Dean lamented. He had been in prison 10 years for aggravated assault. He had endured thousands upon thousands of hours of psychological retraining to work on his anger issues.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Polreno, that we have been unable to rehabilitate you. The penalty for three failures is death.”

Why couldn’t he be nice? Why did someone mocking his heritage piss him off so much? Why couldn’t he let it go?

“You know why, Mr.Polreno.”

They were in his head!

“A great man once said, your right to swing your fist ends at my nose. Words are just words Mr.Polreno. You of all people should know that since we’ve tried so hard to bring you back to proper society. Freedom of speech is the most sacred right in our world, and we cannot abide people being silenced. We must stop that at any cost. You understand this now, as that was the core of your training. Yet, you still couldn’t stop yourself from hurting that man just because of what he said.”

“But he touched me,” Dean cried out.

“He pushed me, with those two stupid stick fingers of his.”

Dean saw the Officer of Speech Freedom step into the light.

“Really now, Mr.Polreno. Have you learned nothing at all?”

The Officer sighed heavily.

“Goodbye, Dean Polreno. Your words and thoughts have been recorded for posterity in the records of Speech Freedom. People will study them long after you are gone. I hope that gives you some solace.”

The Officer of Speech Freedom pushed a small red button on Dean’s chair. A lethal liquid was introduced to his IV and Dean’s vision began to dim. His last thoughts were this.

“Fuck you.”

posted by CommanderHate at 8:31 pm  

1 Comment »

  1. You could have ended that with “And that’s how I became the prince of bel air”, but you didn’t. I applaud you, sir. Bravo.

    Comment by The Dude — February 25, 2008 @ 5:07 pm

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