”It’s not that I disagree with the general policy per se, it’s just the way the government attempted to downplay the implications of a fully fledged privatisation, you know? The way it was implemented.” David sipped his beer.
“Nah, I know what you mean. I went to the beach on the weekend and the sea level was up at least, like, a meter higher than when I was there with Sarah and the kids at the same time last year.”
“I don’t think you do know what I mean.”
“Sure, I hear you.” Greg tipped his half-empty tea cup in David’s direction, nodded solemnly, and drank on.
“Well, what do you think? Should we have a say in how our values are rationalised?” David had left his beer on the wooden side table to allow him to lean closer and furrow his brow in a very serious manner, a particular demeanour a beer bottle tends to interrupt. “Shouldn’t we have input into the workings of the Polis?”
Greg stared at the paint-peeling on the ceiling and frowned.
“Shouldn’t we have control over the hours of our lives, converted to dollars in the public coffers, collected as tax?”
Greg stood up and paced the floor.
“Why should those born into wealth and privilege line their pockets while we sit, filthy and robust, at the peak of our lives, wallowing in self-pity and contempt for our fellow man!?”
Greg grabbed a broomstick, which had been propped up against the side wall, and belted its pointy end against the ceiling.
Outside, a flock of black flashes exploded from the rooftop and disappeared into he night.
“Bloody Ninjas.” Greg grumbled.
“They are a nuisance.” David resumed his beer.
C.T. Curio 