Drillmington: Hold His Power

A ticking continued.

“Please! Let me out of here!” Shonanda Newberry cried.

Sate walked to the tank where she was being held.

“You shut your mouth. You will be fed accordingly!”

“I’m not hungry. I want out of here!”

Sate continued upstairs and turned out the light. Her sobs continued as she was sectioned off from the other women.

His body movements were like a salamander. He scurried and frittered with an unexpected way of walking. His underlings took notice of this. They didn’t know if he was going to hand them a thousand dollars or strike them with great fury for some trivial insubordination.

Sate sat at his desk and looked at the burners. He selected one of the giant cockroaches and called an associate.

“We’ve got a few more. They’ll be there. Check.”

He then stepped forward and found his workers to be shooting the state of nothingness. He didn’t raise his voice. The icy venom his throat projected no loudness or bombastic terms.

“I see we don’t want to get paid today,” he said with such frostbite-inducing coldness that they scattered like ants from a stepped on anthill.

As he staggered in his awkward way, Sate continued to find new ways for the men to become consumed by back-breaking, mind-numbing, soul-crushing work.

They all snapped to and started gassing up trucks and vans. There seemed to be a silent rift like an odorless gas that hung in the air that was also poisonous and flammable.

In a way, Sate commanded with an iron fist in a glass glove. Whenever he slammed down the fist, the glass glove shattered and broke into his hand. The blood then represented his self-sacrificial, unselfish, selflessness.

Sate felt pain at not his own burdens, but having to strike his workers and the “work.”

In his mind, he considered himself a force for evil. He knew it in his blood. He didn’t do anything for the good. He wanted only to be a monster. While he knew of other figures who committed acts as he did, he didn’t “lower” himself to help the people under him, his own family.

What he took from the “game” was something that represented a breach and he knew it. It felt proper for him to do it. Felt. It didn’t make any sense otherwise but the emotion that kept men together. He wanted only to create within himself an ideal that he should be a supporter not of himself but for others and he wanted it to hurt. He didn’t want any position in supporting anyone and he definitely didn’t want to benefit himself.

He did allow the idea of paying his workers what they didn’t deserve. The men who had the most muscle and time in his operation were punished as brand new blood became rewarded. This of course became a source of animosity amongst the men. They often beat and stole from the younger, new laborers. Sate didn’t bat an eye.

He commanded with his own sense of being. To control all of the people under his whip, gun, and cane.

“Load up those trucks,” he nearly whispered, “get the product and bring them here to me.”

There seemed to be a sense that he could hold his power against them and still curry favor.

He brought to them money, shelter, food, clothing, all, the workers and the oppressed.

He felt great pain in doing it and knew that’s what he was supposed to feel. He worked only to hurt himself and others. This shining, premium ideal reflected itself in hiscevery movement. He expressed it in every action.