Last Paradise

Last Paradise

First Part of the First Book

My soul is fallen.

I stand on deck, arms crossed and shivering, as the creaky old vessel chops its way through the polluted waves. It speeds violently- sickeningly- towards the smoggy, urban coast. The skyline is dirty and dull, choked by an industrial haze. And yet our vessel pushes on through the aquatic ecosystem of discarded plastics and dead fishes, determined to punctually unload its cargo of social deviants and opportunistic rebels.

My noble spirit remains intact, yet on all sides I am reminded of my failure. I know that I have fallen. I know by the shameless panderer who stands beside me, or the corrupt demagogue who lags in the rear. I know by the soulless usurpers hiding below the deck and the murderers scattered throughout. I know the company I keep, because I am one of them. And yet, for some weird reason, I find myself to be disconnected. These people embarrass me. They are shameful in their suffering, and shameful in their crimes. I am not.

The smell from the filthy city creeps up through my nostrils and becomes more intense as our vessel floats nearer to the port. The stagnant shit-water reeks equally, and it is the nauseating conversion of the two that drives me, for a moment, to take respite beneath the decks. There, the stale sweat stink replaces the new one of perpetual, growing ripeness.

Our guardians make little contact with the port officers, aside from the occasional and necessary hand gesture or nod. They dare not step foot on the land, or make any of kind of movement that might dirty their crisp navy uniforms. They are afraid, and completely unwilling to acknowledge the untouchables of the other autonomous power. They dare not mix with the evil, lest part of it cling onto their own souls. Slowly, they file us off the rusty barge and onto the dock.

They are not guardians- they are sanitation engineers. We are not humans- we are garbage and this is the landfill that we have been taken too.

A port officer asks me my name. His language is the same as mine, but his accent is different. It is thick, barbaric, diluted. I am hesitant to reply. What explanation do I owe him? With sarcastic cynicism and intended intimidation I mutter my answer.

-My name is Satan.

The port officer gives me a confused look. He scratches his head, and then shrugs as he reaches down and types something into his palm keyboard. A slip prints out of the back and he hands it to me.

-Take this down to the tent over there so you can get your ID. I do as he says.

They give me my ID. My name is “Saturn” now. The Planet. The God of God.

Another officer gathers us and leads us out of the barbed-wire enclosure. Once out, we are free to do as we will. The sprawling metropolis is ours- a second chance in a polluted purgatory where all people are equal in their rights to impose.

Painted billboards are propped to the left and right. They are endless, but temporary. Billboards paint the sky, too. On tops of buildings, below unicopters, on the underside of airships, and in even space. The gigantic advertisement looms lonesomely down from above the atmosphere, like a cold and omnipresent pharaoh atop a corporate pyramid. All providing, and no secrets can be kept from its all seeing eye.

I turn and head down a random street. A few stragglers from the boat follow me, as if I have somewhere to lead them. Perhaps I do? Perhaps the light of my soul inspires them, great as it is, to go where I lead? Fallen as I am, my soul flourishes!

A man hands me a business card and says:

-Join with the Titans and find a spot for yourself above this.

I accept the card, but do not linger. I head on. There is much to do, and I must find a place to sleep before night falls- and whatever creeps at night in this city I do not want to know. I am fallen, but I push on.

I continue down the street, swaying around garbage heaps and unemployed beggars with clothes soiled by their own excrement.

The smell isn’t bothering me as much. In fact, I’m becoming increasingly comfortable with my position in this disgusting wasteland. It is in the power of the mind to make a paradise out of hell, and so I mean to make this place into my heaven. Here, I am free, though uncared for. No chains can hold down my soul, except for the chains that I bind myself by. This is my place. This is my filth and I am free and I will wallow in my filth and from it I will rise with formidable wrath. For now, though, I must rest.