Safe inside his smallish flat, Byron Forbes settled in behind his typewriter. There he pondered a series of notions concerning his latest story. He had enough material written to send out the next series of chapters when they came due, but it never hurt to get ahead. For the moment he needed to calm himself. His experience outside among the zombie masses had left him shaken. He enjoyed his home and its familar elements. He felt uncomfortable anywhere else. Inspiration, that is what he needed. Something to return his mind to the proper frame thought. For Byron, that came in two forms.
The first place he could go would be to his large collection of books that adorned the many shelves built into the walls of his apartment. They never failed to free his thoughts. They allowed his imagination to roam and flourish. Byron had books on a myriad of subjects. Most by authors that specialized in the grim and the glib. That is what it often took to deepen his mood when taking on the idoicy of humanoid society. How people could be willing parts of that disgraceful system was beyond him. But what did he care? As long as they paid handsomely to be insulted by his sardondic barbs. Obviously, they enjoyed being treated like the witless nonentities they were. Without question it was the classic case of being a gluttons for punishment.
His other main source of inspiration was television. A rare invention that had promise. But one rendered nearly useless by the moronic programing choices it offered. Still, he found humor in some of its elements. Shows that dealt with ecomonically challenged families pulling together to overcome the struggles of life were chief among them. What got Byron was these episodes tended to end on happy notes. Now that was truly laughable. As if any enjoyment could come from being forced to live like a drudge.
Then there was the nightly news. Now that was high comedy. The national news had its moments, but the local was where the true source of Byron’s grim inspiration resided. It started with “good evening”, and refering to the township as the “city of good neighbors”, Then as if the contradict themselves they moved right into gruesome details surrounding, accidents, murders and other similar events. Once this finished, it was off to the feel good stories about the community. Priceless! Some community. It was nothing more than a collection of posturing clowns lining up to get on camera to proclaim how neighborhood watch programs and silly antidrug slogans actually made a difference. This after just hearing how inner city crime rates in the area had climbed into the top ten nationally. The local news with its parade of contradictions was a never ending flow material for Byron’s Sardonic writings. Truth after all was stranger than fiction.
Noting the time, he rose and turned on the television. No remote controls for him. They were merely another device that displayed the laziness of current times. The neverending search to do it the easy way.
He switched channel over to the morning news then settled back in his plush, leather back chair awaiting the onslaught of reports concerning the illogical acts his neighbors had performed the day before. He was not disappointed. There was an accident on interstate 33 leading into Buffalo. The driver, a traffic court judge had been legally drunk and tooling along at 30 miles over the speed limit. The Governor had lost his voice stumping for several state senate candidates and had to cancel a debate that could determine his political fate. Two homes across from a firehouse, closed by recent budget cuts burned to the ground. A sex scandel at a nearby universtiy had left the career of an ethics professor in ruins. Bryon chuckled at all this. There truly was nothing like entropy at work.
Sports and weather came next. Nothing interesting there. Byron had no intention of leaving his house again anytime soon so the weather was of no concern to him. Sports, quite simply put were a farce. Just mock entertainment designed to distract the lowbrow population while the wealthest elements of society could rob them blind.
Finally came the best part for Byron. The place he plucked many of his story ideas from. The feel good stories and oddities in the news. Today offered the latest fad to hit England. Namely, the most recent services added to the spa scene, chocolate enemas. Even Byron was taken aback by that one. Surely they could not be serious. What soulless, deviant creature thought that up? And what manner imbecile would allow themselves to be subjected to it? Only the most ignorant of dolts to be sure. Then again, perhaps that is what the world needed. One big enema to clean out the lingering traces caveman behavior so prevelent in todays society.
Byron had seen enough. He switched off the television. That story was so bizzare even he could find no place for it in his work. But it had set the proper mood. It was time to return to work. Back to his story and the less than subtle digs at society it would contain.