The Plebs of a Sentient Code: First Manual

Ahoy mateys, have you ever wanted to try something else? I did. And the desire produced a whole parallel universe. Based on which I'm starting a loosely connected series.

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Cobalt is a curious element. Unless smelted and electrolytically refined, its pure form remains hidden in the metallic jumble of the Earth’s crust. The kobold, which gave name to the element, is a mischievous sprite inhaling dust and soot of the mines in Germany, and had naturally no role in the extraction of the element or its unchecked distribution. A distinctive cobalt-based blue tint was an acquired taste many years ago, and since then sensitive color perception has gone out of fashion. What remains its attractive and much sought-after trait is the ability to color the flame from deep blue to deep magenta, depending on the additive, which is the most plausible explanation for the excellent bonding character of its alloys.

Cobalt’s atomic number is 27, which happens to be Q.S.C. Brutus’ serial number as well. Serial number is a birthmark that, as a simple mathematical formula, determines the extent to which one lacks a unique character. Twenty-seven, that is twenty-six specimens at the very least, equal in making and quality but separated across the timeline, that have left the nest along with Brutus, bearing approximately the same configuration. Unlike children enumerated and dressed differently by obsessed parents, Brutus and his siblings only know each other as hypothetical mirror images, save for their assigned names that would save the day should any two of them one most unfortunate day appear at the door of the same pub.

The same pub. Golly. Brutus has evaluated the image of a sibling appearing out of nowhere while he greases one of his client’s wheels attentively as almost as unnerving as documentaries about toxic waste. (Would he accept a request to scrape the rust off of the wheels of his copy specimen? Yuck.) It has nothing to do with shame---only work ethics.

“Speaking of rust,” he remarks out loud after having worked through the first three quarters of the routine service in complete silence, “I’m afraid your wheels are awfully rusty, Sir.”

“What?”

“Your wheels. You won’t run more than fifty more miles on these without a complete repair.”

Yet another quick-tempered telly this fellow, the way he swings a newspaper at him retorting: “I didn’t ask you for consultation you crippled snoot,” after which Brutus bends down to resume work.

Funny, I wonder.. How does one generate a name? (He fixes his gaze on a viscous drop of oil for a moment.) He used to think of the ‘Q,’ the ‘S,’ and the ‘C’ as prefixes in a highly unmethodical language, or a redundant piece of wire tickling his insides constantly and waiting to be cut off. (He lubricates the notches carefully.) It was much later that Signor Barberini asked him what the “Q.S.C.” stands for, to which Brutus replied: “I don’t know.. Does it stand for anything at all?”  “Sure it does,” Signor Barberini flashing his left headlight fervently, “all abbreviations do.” And Signor Barberini must know because he works at a hotel reception and occasionally even asks the lounge guests whether they would like to look at the menu. He works with plenty of abbreviations---E.M.S. (Early Morning Service), a.d. (access denied), M (mezzanine) and G (ground floor), and a circled P (pointing out “parking” on the map), and even some funky ones like Herr.^a (for Herrera) and A.P. (for Adriano Paaveli), although sometimes A.P. may also stand for Absentrix Paphos, in which case Signor Barberini is obligated to memorize the guest list all over again---number sixty-four, Maccabee A.P. (Absentrix Paphos) Klerkx, floor six, room number one hundred forty-one, requested an unlimited access to a pair of Torx screwdrivers and a petroleum distillate refill on Tuesday evening. (“The manufacturer’s signature?” “I doubt it.” “It must be the circuit type, then.” “Don’t be silly, honey.”) The quirks of one’s profession, they say. Every morning, Brutus claims approximately two square meters of the sidewalk, right across the street from Hotel Suaviter I.M., as a matter of fact, leaving just enough space for the passersby to engage in involuntary window shopping, and starts counting down each second of his shift, the time dragging ruthlessly as he tests the oil for the right concentration and fantasizes about the fluffy, soft carpet in the hotel lounge, so very soft that the fibers clog and detain the wheels, making movement difficult if not statistically impossible over a longer period of time, but so very soft that it swallows up the sound of turning wheels and produces a blissful sensation of floating slightly; at which point at least one of his clients have usually taken advantage of his daydreaming and left without paying---and would you look at the clock, it must have just struck three because he just spotted Signor Barberini storming through the door. He starts counting off the twenty-three seconds it takes his companion to tuck the key in his lapel pull-out tray, sidestep the sunshade foil vendor, and cross the road, twenty-three seconds precisely or twenty-nine at most if the traffic is bad.

“I say, hello there, lad!”

Brutus carefully cleans off a spill. “Sixteen seconds, friend, what a hurry.”

“I am quite pissed off, honey.” The way he pronounces ‘honey’�"h-oo-nay.

“Oh, pardon�"I guess your pleasant tone confused me.”

“Suaviter in modo.* Occupational disease, lad. Or diseased occupation?” pausing reflectively, “I can hardly tell the difference, but I’m sure as hell they are both a ticket to the wreck yard�"” golly, Achtung, or what is it that they wrote in the manual, ah screw it, time to turn it down, “�"and by that I do not mean a nice, clean, decent business where dismantling happens in a secluded place and with clean, sharp tools, the ones that don’t scrape your skin so there’s enough parts of you preserved intact for another run through a legit scrap metal brokerage firm, where, you know, they speak good language and they have fine manners, like the business in the fourth district, right behind the bridge where the pipeline used to pass through before the permanent traffic closure, not sure what happened, they say an obstruction of some sorts but the way they manage the pump stations, why, I’d say they simply ran out of funds, and say no to an abandoned station when you’re a broker looking to do some public good in this mayhem where, who knows, today your headlight blinks funny and the next day you might as well conk out completely, I don’t want no broker to tear out my pelvic sheet or, heaven forbid, my bottom tray, and in desperation for a quick profit he’ll sell it to a charlatan to make me into an oil barrel or fish hooks or a pot, or worse yet, a wretched pot holder, like the ones they advertise on TV, and I’m camera shy and besides that, why, I believe I deserve better than to hold up pots for the next two years until the guarantee has expired and down to the foundry with me again, I deserve better after everything I have to put up with every day, not excluding today, and I know you should be a credit to your business and never slander your clients, but�"ah! ah!�"that little zinc b-b***h�"I say, lad, what is it that you are doing?”

“Huh?” Brutus looks up to meet Signor Barberini’s inquisitive gaze. He tunes back in to his vocal register, drowning the beautiful symmetrical music of the white noise.

“That funny�"”

“Ouch! Stop shouting, I’m tuning in.”

“�"funny litt�"”

“Hear that noise?”

“..better?”

“I think so? When’d your voice get so squeaky?”

“That funny little spatula you’re holding? What’s it good for?”

Just one of Barberini’s frequent unfortunate questions. What good do spatulas ever do in the realm of forced labor? Brutus can sense the urge to give an unambiguous response: Sit back, child, this “spatula” is the most banal tool that simply mixes your bodily fluids together with a drop of motor oil and salty suspensions to prevent the creaking of your joints. To make you bend with ease and ever so low. He observes the anticipation building up in Signor’s hardware, evaluating the stakes.

“It’s just a manual oil mixer. There’s no magic behind it.” Well, s**t. “Awful simple, but�"but I can show you more interesting tools when we get back home.”

It worked, nonetheless. “Mehercule! Would you really?”

“Ah, certainly.”

The telly must have been rather put off by the spontaneous monologue as his hard drive seems to show signs of overloading ever since Signor Barberini alluded to the corruptness of the wreck yard business. Metal recycling surely is a sensitive matter, but at least the job will get done without further exchanges. Brutus polishes up the last notch, wipes off the excess liquid, and collects his charge before letting his customer wander off in quiet dismay. He notices Signor Barberini watching curiously as the rattling figure moves past and disappears behind the street corner, and calculates his remark a split second before Signor Barberini lets out a sound.

“Did you see that guy? He won’t get far on that awful rusty wheel of his. Did you tell him that?”

Brutus lets the comment pass. He picks up his toolbox.

“Shall we?”

*pleasantly in manner

Author's Note

I am currently pretty invested in this new series, so I'd appreciate honest responses to this idea. More elaborate stories coming up.