A corporate lawyer has made his fortune fighting worker regulations in Boston, breaking up union strikes in Sri Lanka, and sending Pinkertons to crack tree hugger heads in the rain-forest.
One day though he steps through the wrong, ethereal door and finds himself in the body of one of those he had fought, facing down the corporate guns.
[Twilight Zone Music Plays] -- Anon Guest
Presented for your approval, James Worpyington-Smythe III, council for the corporate persons and their rights to pursue profit. The little people are merely grist for the grinding gears of progress.
Employees got enough of a wage to eke out a living. If they dared fall sick, the could not afford James' services regarding their allegedly wrongful dismissal. Corporations, on the other hand, did not possess messy and unreliable biological processes, could not fall sick. Further, they had nearly bottomless pockets. It was clear which side James preferred to take. Under his direction, armed forces with similar motivations removed the "organic obstacles" to the multi-million-dollar greater good.
The only downside was that he was sometimes ordered to supervise the proceedings.
James didn't much care, and considered it a working holiday. After all, he flew to the site in a private jet, stayed in a five-star hotel, and only briefly had to endure the local weather on trips to the site in question. He could even indulge himself in some of the local foodstuffs if he so desired.
No tip, of course. People could be so greedy and lazy. Service people merely needed to work harder and they could get ahead like he did.
Some of them didn't even speak proper English.
One of them, tired, thin, and showing her age, mumbled, "Hijo da puta," under her breath as he paid her with a Christian Screed masquerading as a five hundred dollar bill. "Lo que das, lo obtendrás!"
He called Immigration on her as he walked out of the restaurant. Thinking nothing more of the matter as he continued on his working holiday near the Uranium mines belonging to his latest client. The disposable staff wanted lead? They were getting lead. Any moment now, he would get the text about the numbers still alive who were returning to work.
He was looking at his phone when the truck bore down on him. A patriotic vehicle, wide and tall. Too tall to see pedestrians as it ran the red light.
James remembered diving for the tarmac, hoping to fit between the wheels and under the undercarriage. He remembered planning to get the license plate so he could make the driver and their family into his hobby. Destroying their pitiful lives one lawsuit at a time. All for staining his Armani suit.
He woke up with someone cradling him. The feel of sweat and grease and an overlaying sickness washing through him. There was water at his lips. Tepid and tasting heavily of the local chemicals. Stinking of fracking gasses.
He was in denim and polyester-cotton blend clothes. Working clothes. Not a suit. It was too hot and too stinky for James to stand. And he was too thirsty to refuse the water.
"Easy. We only have so much. Can you stand, boy?"
Things came into focus. Dirty miners in cheap work clothes. Shoes worn so hard that they were almost falling apart. A rabble of Latino faces. Latino voices. His hands were bandaged. Stained. And a couple of decades younger than they should be.
"I think so," he managed. He wanted to get out of this place. Demand to speak to his own lawyer. Find out who put him in this ridiculous situation and make them his hobby as well.
Standing up may have been a mistake. His vision spun and his legs shook.
"What a first day at work, eh, Miguel? You'll be strong in a minute or two. Just breathe deep."
His name wasn't-- James blinked, steadying himself on something solid. Wait. They were all speaking Spanish. He didn't understand a word of Spanish. "Something weird is happening," he managed.
He never got to explain himself. Someone was setting off firecrackers. The others were screaming. The people between him and the blazing light of day fell. Revealing masked men with uniforms and guns.
Aimed at him.
He barely had time to realise they were shooting at him before the burning pain put out all light.
James woke with a wracking cough, spitting up blood onto a low-quality pillow in a low quality bunk. The creeping sickness was worse.
"You all right, Renzo?" said another Latino in the midst of putting his poor quality boots on. "You be careful. They say they're sending soldiers today."
James' nightmare was just beginning.
[Photo by Alpha Perspective on Unsplash]
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