Failed State
by Robert WEXELBLATT

The drug trade in a four-block neighborhood in the northwest of the capital was contested by two gangs, Karum Krew, known as KK, and Shaami Posse Two or SP2. There was little to distinguish the two gangs. Both were made up of adolescents from families the gangs had replaced in their allegiances. Each was led by a man in his twenties with the torso and arms of a weightlifter. KK and SP2 both sourced their merchandise from the same foreign cartel. The boys were semi-disciplined, quick to anger, barely educated, fearless, and street-smart. All were armed with knives or box cutters. Only the muscle-bound leaders and their bodyguards had firearms. Nobody was frightened by the police; rather, it was the police who were afraid of them. The few businesses that had not left or closed down paid protection money to one gang or the other. The largest, an auto and motorbike repair shop, paid both.
After half a dozen youths were killed in eight days, the leaders engaged in a brief effort to negotiate a division of the territory. But diplomacy was not the forte of either, so things went on as before, as tensely but with a bit more restraint. Thanks to the plutocrats in their Mercedes and Range Rovers, from which they never got out, business was brisk and profitable enough. Still, the territory was a mere four blocks and, in the opinion of the SP2’s chief, not big enough for both. A merger was out of the question. The two gangs loathed each other, like a brace of jealous fraternal twins.
The chief of PS2, who went by the name of Shredder, was a small-time operator with big-time dreams. What he dreamed of was monopoly and expansion and he knew that the former was a prerequisite of achieving the latter. Once KK had been eliminated, with a base firmly in his hands, he could diversify into prostitution, gambling, kidnapping, loan sharking. He could spread his wings, move into wealthier parts of the city, extort bigger businesses, maybe even arrange phony government contracts. With his narrow, famished eyes, Shredder had been watching gangster films since he was a child, mostly American ones. The American dream meant being a successful crook. When he was starting out, the man who recruited him had a favorite saying: “If you rob a liquor store, you’re just a thief; if you steal Asia, you’re a god.” But to steal well, to flourish, he would need backing. As he saw things, the most efficient way to make himself a bigger tuna was to collaborate with a tuna that was already big.
When Shredder received his monthly delivery in April, he took the courier aside and demanded a face-to-face with a representative of the supplier — “not,” he added disdainfully, “some squirt like you but somebody with juice. Understand?” When the frightened courier asked why, Shredder smiled contemptuously. “Mutual benefit. Duh,” he said, delivering the last syllable like a hammer blow.
A week later, Shredder got a text instructing him to be at the equestrian statue in Central Plaza at precisely four in the afternoon on Monday — and to wear a suit. He borrowed a suit from his skinny cousin. At the appointed time, he was approached in the plaza by a fortyish man in a blue suit that fit. In an accent that was only slightly foreign, he told Shredder to talk fast and not loud.
Shredder offered the Cartel a partnership. With a relatively small investment of cash and muscle, Shredder said the competition could be eliminated and, in due course, he could take over the whole city and organize things properly. He said he had it all worked out. The rise of PS2 would begin with removing the punks of Karum Krew. He asked for help with this first step. Why? Because the boss of KK, called the Hulk, always kept his two toughest men with him, one with a pistol, the other with an Uzi. He thought it imprudent to risk the lives of his boys or, of course, his own. He didn’t want any evidence linking PS2 to the operation. “More than plausible deniability,” he said, “to keep the cops off our backs.”
Shredder was nothing if not thorough. He had two boys watch the Hulk for a month. He knew where he and his top boys hung out and when. They were at the Tugram Bar and Grill every Tuesday and Thursday from noon to three.
The bigwigs of the cartel debated the costs and benefits of using this ambitious Shredder to turn what had been a nose under the tent into a firm foothold, a real beachhead. Some thought it made sense to work with a rising PS2 rather than supplying both them and KK. Small potatoes, they argued. They stood to move more product with an ambitious client who aimed to expand than to go on feeding two small-time gangs who sooner or later would tear each other apart over four miserable city blocks. Those opposed pointed out that if this Shredder was too weak to eliminate the local competition on his own, he certainly couldn’t be counted on to expand either his territory or activities. One lieutenant who once had taken an introductory course in economics retorted that they should consider the potential opportunity costs of rejecting the request. Up till now their operations in the capital had been limited. They were mere providers, running a kind of extractive economy. There were riches in that flabby, corrupt capital. Wouldn’t it be better to be silent partners? Shredder, he added, had displayed some intelligence in not wanting to attract too much attention to himself, pathetic though the authorities were.
In the end, the big boss decided to oblige Shredder but to minimize the risk of being identified with any violence themselves. “That’s bad business,” he said. “We can get somebody from the outside. And cheap.” Here he turned on the economics expert. “Supply in that segment of the labor force wildly exceeds the demand, no? So, a bus ticket. A hotel room. A few hundred dollars.”
The cut-rate contractor the cartel hired was, in some respects, competent. He knew how to smuggle in the components and assemble a bomb. He even understood how to detonate the thing remotely with a cell phone. But he made a vital mistake, if indeed the error was his. Instead of placing the device in the Tugram Bar and Grill in the rundown northwest of the city, he planted it in Restaurant Nubran in the affluent southwest. It’s possible he’d been given the wrong address by his employer. Maybe it hadn’t been written down quite legibly. Perhaps he was instructed to memorize the name and did it badly. Impossible to say, as he was murdered three days after using his return bus ticket.
At one o’clock on a Tuesday in May, an explosion tore apart the Nubran, an elegant restaurant popular with ladies from the upper-crust. The blast severely injured seventeen people and blew eight to bits. Among the latter were three toddlers and the pregnant wife of the deputy transport minister.
Disposable adolescents stabbing and shooting one another was deplorable but tolerable. A bomb killing affluent diners and their children two blocks from the National Assembly was not.
From that afternoon events moved at a breathtaking pace. It was as if chaos were a dozing dragon wakened by the blast. The government declared the bombing a terrorist outrage, declared a state of emergency, and deployed troops around the city. The first checkpoints appeared before the sun was down.
On the large military base three miles outside the city, a young colonel convened a secret meeting of junior officers. They had met before, initially airing personal grievances, criticizing senior staff, the ministry, the food. Subsequent sessions were more political. Now the criticism was aimed at the civilians who ran things, the courts, the legislature, the president — all on the take. There were patriotic speeches and pledges of solidarity. The young colonel had laid out his plan for when the time was right. Now, he declared, the time was right. The meeting ended with everyone standing at attention and singing the national anthem.
The coup began at dawn three days after the bombing. Tanks and personnel carriers moved into the capital. The soldiers manning checkpoints mostly joined; the ones who refused were overwhelmed. A few were shot, the others taken into custody. The president fled in a helicopter to an army base in the north. From there he issued a call to the people to defend the constitution and an appeal to all loyal troops to resist the treasonous coup. There were demonstrations in the capital to which the coup leaders responded first with water cannon, then tear gas, and finally live ammunition. Nearly a hundred protestors were killed. In the North, the President rallied his forces, put himself at their head, and began a march on the capital. In the capital, the junta led by the patriotic colonel declared the constitution defunct and the president an enemy of the people.
The bloody civil war was on. Supplies of food, water, and medical equipment began to run out. Looting and banditry spread like cancer. The wealthy raised private militias. Refugees flooded the frontiers of neighboring countries who kept both sides well supplied with weapons but little humanitarian aid. Urgent meetings were convened by the Regional Union and the United Nations Security Council. Resolutions were proposed. The ones that weren’t vetoed were ignored.
Filed under Fiction on January 31st, 2025
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The Man Who Hated His Job
by Jack WHALER

Once, there was a man who hated his job. “I hate my job,” he said to himself, and then he stopped typing and screamed, right there in his home office. It was Friday night. An urgent email had just made its way into his inbox, and it would take hours to resolve. The room was blue with the light from his screen.
There were fast footsteps downstairs, then up the stairs, and his roommate burst in.
“What happened?” the roommate said, “Are you okay?”
“I hate my job!” the man said.
“Oh. I thought something bad had happened.”
“This is bad!” the man said, “I spend like 60 hours a week working! Every week! I help companies find better procurement solutions! Because of me, businesses save a little more money! How can this possibly be all that my life is?” He waved his arms as he spoke and almost clipped the side of his standing desk.
The roommate tilted his head to the side. The man kept going, “And I always get stuck with the hardest projects and I do them anyway and I put in way too much effort because I can’t stand to look bad, and I never get recognized and I’ve tried pushing back and that never works and I just don’t know what to do!”
“Well, is there something else you wish you were doing?”
“I don’t know!”
The roommate took a step back. “Well maybe you should figure that out then.”
“That sounds hard.”
“Well then don’t?”
“That also sounds hard!”
The man turned back toward his computer for a moment to read an email. When he turned back toward the doorway, his roommate had already gone. But the man kept thinking. He scrolled through job postings. There were listings for sales associates and project managers, and even one for a ‘dynamic go-getter with a can-do attitude.’ He sighed. If only he had enough money to never work again.
On a trip downstairs to get some water, he passed his roommate and stopped. “I still don’t know what to do,” he said.
“Maybe you should talk to someone about it?” said the roommate.
“Like a monk or a guru or something?” The man lit up. He thought of every comic he’d ever read with a white-bearded wizardly man with great wisdom. He’d never had a guru or a sage in his life before. Maybe that’s what he needed.
“I mean, I was thinking more like a mentor or a career coach —” said his roommate.
And that just wasn’t going to cut it. “No,” said the man, “I want a guru, and I want one tomorrow.” The man already had his phone out and was searching online. There was a guy who lived on a mountain nearby, complete with a flowing white beard. And this guy had very good reviews on Yelp.
“An unorthodox life-changer!” started one. The man started to nod. “I feel so full of purpose now, worth every step of that hike,” said another. “I can finally go to work with a smile now. I am new,” went a third. The man nodded extra hard at that one. He clicked through the guru’s website, and there was a picture of the guru grinning with teeth the same color as his beard, and orange robes flowing. “Mountaintop discernment. Your trajectory: redirected. Your spirit: realigned. Cash only. $500 per guidance.” That sounded like a lot of money, but then again, the man knew he needed some redirection. And this sounded like just the guy.
…
In the morning, the man stuffed money in an envelope, and packed his backpack with trail mix and a water bottle. He hopped in the shower and made sure to really give himself a good scrub. After all, he would be redirected today, and he wanted to look tip-top for when his new life began. He put on a clean shirt and laced his sneakers and walked to the door. Then, his phone buzzed. Someone had responded to one of his emails from the night before. He paused in the doorway, huffed, and typed out a reply.
Once it was off and sent, he called an Uber, and minutes later, he was off! The car rolled through town, past frowning shopkeepers in storefronts, and office buildings where every parked car meant at least one person was working, even now on the weekend.
The car zoomed onward. High-rises turned into low-rises. Low-rises spread until the sidewalk disappeared and they were in the country. And then, soon enough, they were at the foot of the mountain. That was fast, he thought.
There was a little signpost by the trailhead. ‘Guru peak: 12 miles.’ The whole mountain looked bigger up close too. A lone dusty trail snaked up through gray brush toward the peak, until it vanished from sight altogether. Little blips of people dotted the path, and eventually disappeared as it went higher too.
The man shrugged and started power-walking right on up the trail. He swung his arms with extra-large swings. But within minutes, he was huffing. His muscles burned. His calves, his hamstrings, even the weird little muscles around his ankles that he hadn’t thought much about before. Typing at his desk all day wasn’t exactly doing him favors in the hiking department. Soon, he was going in more of a walk, with substantially less power.
But he wanted this. He needed it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so pleasant, but hey, he had plenty of practice doing things he didn’t like.
Up ahead, someone had set up a refreshment stand, and had little Dixie cups of Gatorade set out. Dollars per swig. A line of thirsty-looking people waited. The man took a sip from his water bottle and kept on going. He passed more people, heading both up and down. Some trudged down, defeated. “Quitters,” thought the man. Others took careful steps down with gentle smiles on their faces and peaceful faraway looks. He thought of making that walk down himself, how good he would look, smiling and tranquil.
The sun rose in a gentle arc. The man trudged. It hit its peak. The man continued to trudge. It started its descent back down toward the horizon. The man kept on. He was covered in sweat, and his shirt had a big wet mark over his sternum like a target. He gave his pits a smell. Not great. He considered turning around, maybe coming back on a less-sunny day when he could arrive in better form.
He grimaced at the thought of having to wait, and kept trudging. His left leg began to cramp, and he paused. He nibbled on a little trail mix. And then he started hopping up the trail on his good leg.
He hopped and hopped, making progress in little slow lurches. And then suddenly, the slope leveled off. He was there! He could see his city in the distance, but it looked so tiny from up here. Just a series of boxes and blips in the distance. On the peak, there was a little wooden bench amid the brush and small dusty stones, with a person-shaped lump covered by a blanket.
The man fell to his knees in front of the bench. “Great guru,” he said, “I need your help. I hate my job.”
The blanket shifted, and a bearded face peeked out. The guru blinked a lot. He yawned. “Welcome traveler.”
The man handed him the money envelope, and then fell back to his knees. The guru counted it and slid it beneath his blanket. “Thanks man,” said the guru, “Got any snacks?”
The man reached into his bag for the trail mix, and handed it over. The guru plucked raisins between his fingers and flicked them off the mountain. Finally, he tipped the bag up and dumped the rest into his mouth. A cloud of peanut dust settled in his beard. “Anything to drink?”
The man passed the guru his water bottle. The guru chugged. Little droplets slid down his robe and pitter-pattered into the dust beneath the bench. The guru handed the bottle back, empty. “Thanks,” he said.
“So what should I do, wise guru?”
The guru laughed. “Beats me,” he said, “Got any cigarettes?”
The man’s jaw clenched. “Listen here,” he said, “I think you’re ripping me off! And I’ve wasted a whole day on you and my calves are killing me and I’ve just paid you a lot of money!”
“Okay,” said the guru. He grinned, and the man could see all of his teeth. They were perfectly straight and shiny veneer-white, just like in the pictures.
The guru pulled his blanket back over his head, and rolled over on the bench.
The man waited a beat. And then he screamed, “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice echoed off into the distance, and set off some rustling in the brush nearby. “Give me an answer or give me my money back.”
“No,” said the guru.
The man’s eyes went big. He let out a nervous laugh. “You’re really going to make me take my money back?”
“Sure,” said the guru. He laughed too.
The man stepped forward and ripped the guru’s blanket off. He grabbed the guru by his robe. The man started to lift him up in the air. “Listen here, you stupid fraud-ass fake guru —”
At that moment, the guru struck the man right in his sweaty sternum. The man staggered backward and sprawled among the gravelly stones on the mountain peak. The guru walked toward him with slow footsteps. His teeth glinted in the sun and his beard flapped in the wind.
The man tried to get to his feet, but his leg was still a little cramped. He wobbled. But the guru was already there, and he swung his leg and kicked the man in his ribs. He fell back down and dug his fingers into the dirt.
The guru stooped down toward the man. His grin was now inches away from the man’s face, and his cheeks stretched and stretched, wider and wider. He lifted the man up by his collar, until the man’s feet dangled. The two men made eye contact. The guru nodded, still grinning. Then, he threw the man with a great great force, straight back down the trail. The man went flying. He was airborne for several seconds. And when he hit the ground, he began to roll.
He tumbled side-over-side down the dusty trail. Little stones jabbed at him. His shirt snagged on pokey brush branches. And he rolled down, back down past fellow hikers and past the little Gatorade stand and then further and further down until he landed in a heap at the very bottom by the trail sign.
“Ow,” he said. He was covered in dirt. His pants and shirt were torn. He definitely had a bruise or two forming. And he was very very dizzy. One of his shoes had disappeared partway down the mountain and his phone was gone too and that meant no Uber.
The sun was beginning to set now, and it was getting dim as the man swayed and hobbled back along the road toward town. He stumbled along the dirt path on the side of the road until it turned to sidewalk. Then past offices with lights still lit and stores with open signs flickering. As he passed through the city center, someone said, “Sir,” to his side. He turned. A stranger held out a dollar. The man stared at the money, then shrugged, and took it.
And then he trudged back home. It was fully night now. The moon was probably somewhere up in the sky. The man opened his door and went upstairs and sat on the shower floor. He turned the dial. Water poured over him and came off tinted brown.
“Yo dude,” came the voice of his roommate from outside the door, “you okay?”
The man didn’t respond.
“Uh, what happened?” went the roommate.
“The guru was a bust,” the man said.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry dude.”
“What the fuck am I even doing?” the man said. “In what world was some Yelp guru on a mountain going to fix all my job bullshit?” He started to cry. “And this guy took my money and tossed me away after I’d given him everything I had. Just like everyone does.”
“Uh,” said the roommate,” that kinda sounds like an overgeneralization.”
“Whatever,” said the man. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he fumbled around with one hand, looking for the bar of soap.
“Maybe you just need to find —”
“But even if it’s not everyone it’s a dang lot of them and they just take and take and take from me. And maybe it’s time I started taking things for myself too.”
“Oh?” said the roommate.
“Not like from you,” he said, “but like from my work or something.” The man was still fumbling around looking for something to clean himself with. His hands closed on his roommate’s thing of body wash. He gave the nozzle a pump, and gel filled his hand.
“Hm,” said the roommate, “I don’t think that’s really what I was going to say.”
“Maybe I’ll call in sick on Monday.” The man chuckled to himself. “Or maybe longer. These sicknesses can sure last a while.” He sniffed the dollop of body wash and began to rub it into his pits. Then, the man grinned, and he felt his cheeks begin to stretch.
Filed under Fiction on January 17th, 2025
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Clouds
by Arthur O'KEEFE

How do I express this?
The thought comes wordlessly to Bruno as he sits facing the sky beyond the boxy, utilitarian cruise ship docked at Osanbashi Pier. The clouds have caught him again.
He shifts his gaze to the bay itself as the motion of a water taxi catches his eye. Farther out, a container ship makes its way toward the open sea.
The July sun is blazing and merciless, but Shizuka found them two chairs under a canopy tent. They are seated in the corner of a Mexico-themed arrangement of food stands, set between two brick warehouses built before the First World War which now serve as a commercial complex. Tex-Mex fare and various drinks are on offer.
Bruno’s Dos Equis Ambar is getting tepid, so he drains it and thinks about what to get next, ignoring the cognitive dissonance caused by his slowly expanding belly and declining liver function.
Shizuka smiles at him, and he smiles back and remembers that he needs to stay sober enough to get her home safely. In the twilight between youth and middle age, she is sixteen years his junior and less prone to hangovers, though she can’t hold her booze well. He leans over and kisses her.
He gets up to buy another Dos Equis, then returns to his chair and looks again at the sky.
Upon the horizon lay billowing clouds of white and grey, expanding imperceptibly against the unbroken blue expanse, moving him in ways arcane and inexpressible by verse, sketch, or painting. A beauty his soul holds captive and yet longs for.
“I wish I could paint it,” he says to her, eyes still fixed on the clouds.
“You could write it.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You can.”
He takes a swig of beer and says, “OK. Thanks for finding these chairs.”
Filed under Fiction on January 3rd, 2025
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