Nineteen Eighty-Nine

A parody of Nineteen Eighty-Four

Chapter One
It was a bright cold day in April...or maybe it was a warm hazy cloudy day in June...it doesn't really matter because Bigger Brother could make it any time he wanted. Even if it were a frigid night in December, if Bigger Brother said it was a hot, sweltering day in the middle of August, then that was what it was. Weston West mopped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief (so there you have it, it was in fact a hot sweltering day in August) as he slipped quickly through the glass (or perhaps it was metal or maybe even concrete) doors. He nearly gagged as the odors of ochre-plantain casserole in the hallway filled his nostrils, but was careful not to make it obvious lest the Food Police caught him complaining of the wonderful meals Bigger Brother provided. At one end of the hallway a large colored poster had been tacked (or maybe nailed) to the wall. It depicted an enormous man with gigantic rolls of flab serving as his many chins. He had a greedy, bug-eyed expression on his face. BIGGER BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, SO HANDS OFF THE JELLY DOUGHNUTS the caption underneath it ran. Weston made for the stairs; the elevator was currently inoperable. It had in fact been inoperable for as long as Weston could remember, but his memory was so vague it was hard to tell. He had asked before when it was going to be fixed, and each time he received the reply, "Tomorrow." Of course, when "tomorrow" came the elevator had still remained unfixed, and when he pointed this out he simply received "Tomorrow is whenever Bigger Brother wants it to be." So he figured that "tomorrow" meant "whenever I feel like doing it," so he left it at that. Besides, going up the stairs was good exercise, and the extra power that would be saved would serve as part of the economy drive for Hate Week. The telescreen was seventy flights up, so by the time he got to the top Weston was in top shape. Of course, "top shape" was a rather ambiguous term; Weston was always told it meant you were healthy but he thought he looked rather skeletal. Nonetheless, he certainly did not want to disagree with what Bigger Brother said so he left it at that. From inside the telescreen a commentator with oily, slicked-back hair and a flabby face was squawking something about how evil the war in Iraq was, how stupid someone called Bush was and how America "really needs change." Weston wasn't interested so he turned the volume down. However, he could still make out something about "right-wing terrorists" who needed to be "even more closely surveyed than anyone else," before the broadcast was interrupted by another commentator with a flat voice who started babbling out some figures which had something to do with the production of toothpicks. Weston rolled his eyes (with his back turned toward the telescreen, lest someone see him do it) and went to look out his window. As far as the eye could see there were buildings and construction. However, the roads were in utter disrepair; immense cracks and potholes covered every inch of the pavement. Weston had had to repair his bicycle many times due to the constant jolts and shocks but no one seemed to have any intention of repairing them in the near future. He sighed. Had they always been like this? He racked his brain; somewhere in the distant past he thought he recalled when there were actually trees around the area and the roads weren't so wide and much better kept. However the memories were so vague he could recall nothing except the continuing industrialization.

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