Illuminatus for a Penny-a-Word

A previously unpublished 2,900-word story

The industrial coffee maker groaned as it released the fresh brew into his stained mug. Pete Graf watched the blackness fill to the brim. The hints of sweet, rich chocolate sent him back to his youth when his mother would surprise him with a 5th Avenue Chocolate bar for his birthday, but that was so long ago. He’d give anything for a good old-fashioned chocolate bar now. He meant old fashioned, not one that was artificially made in some cold factory wrapped together with the arms of a machine.

He stretched his back, careful not to bust up his spinal chip implant that was nestled between his skull and cervical vertebrae. In 145 years Pete’s routine was the same. He always arrived two hours early before his shift at 9 am. His uniform was a pair of khakis held up by dark brown suspenders and a clean white short-sleeve shirt with a purple tie.  Always a purple tie. Not lavender. Not magenta. Plain purple. 

Each white shirt would be neatly pressed every morning at 5 a.m. without fail. After each shift, he’d polish his shoes until they were gleaming. He never took his thirty-minute lunch as advised. From 8 am until 6 pm, he sat at his Olympia SM4 manual typewriter, the latest model he was afforded, and punched the keys in his small closet of an office. On nights when his boss asked for a last-minute revision, Pete parked his butt in his small, wooden chair and cranked out another 4,000 words. Some nights the tip of his fingers would be wrapped in bandages to stop the bleeding.

Pete did what he was told. He was a good company man.