A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VIII: Day/Page 77 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . .
CHAPTER VIII: New Favela City
“Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly and applying the wrong remedies.”― Groucho Marx (1890-1977)
The sheer scope and scale of what stretched out before her defied imagination and confounded her senses. Instinctively she recoiled, not certain that what she perceived was real. Yet all of her senses indelibly told her it was.
The first thing that hit her was the rank, nauseating smell. A warm, damp, viscid musk—more liquid than air—enveloping her, suffocating her beneath the heavy fetor. She draws the scarf tightly over her nose and mouth. (Does everything on this planet smell like it just got belched from the ass of Hell!)
Beyond the barricade of rocks she now stands on is a narrow valley, perhaps 60 miles long from north to south and 10 miles wide, bounded by the sea on her left and thick rainforest mountains to her right. Close to her, a few hundred yards out from the base of the rocks, running parallel to the boulder embankment and each other, are two high, razor-wire fences extending from beach to jungle. Interspersed regularly along the fence closest to Sofia are armed guard towers, and between the two trenchant steel fences is a broad strip of no-man’s land laced with ugly weeds, dry brush, and six million land-mines. About a half mile off to her right is a walled compound with cement-block buildings, encircling an open courtyard. Inside the courtyard are military vehicles, several tanks, and a lone helicopter-gunship.
But that was trivial. That was nothing!
It is the monstrous sight that lies beyond the second fence, out past the mine-cluttered no-man’s land—and which is the fermenting genesis of the malodorous stench—that completely captures Sofia’s attention and assails all her senses.
It is a city. There is no better word for it. But a city unlike any other Sofia, or anyone else on her planet, had ever seen or imagined. Here, out beyond no-man’s land, from one end of the valley to the other, was . . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James All rights reserved