A BUS RIDE
By 1-4-6-0 (Thor Andersen)

    "So… what’s your stop?" asked the man sitting across the aisle from Roland Hanks.
    "I’ve got an appointment," answered Roland Hanks, "—An appointment with the Pet Komestibles Corporation."
    ";Oh, so you’ve got a little ways to go."
    "Yes—Yes I do."
    "An appointment for the surgery?"
    "Yes."
    "Are you nervous?"
    "Oh, not really. They’re just going to remove some extra parts. If it’s good for the economy, it’s good for me. I’ve just got to keep thinking that." Roland paused for a second and then continued, "I use their products. I’ve got two pets myself—two dogs."
    "I really should get some pets. I would be doing my part."
    "Yes, You really should."
    The bus was coming to a halt at a stop in Housing District F3. A number of passengers returning from the Shopping District F2 got off and a number of passengers were getting on to go to Shopping District H3.
    The bus Roland Hanks was riding is owned by a partnership between a number of corporations. One of these corporations being the Pet Komestibles Corporation and another being the corporation that owns and controls a number of residential districts and also a number shopping districts. This corporation has organized the residential and shopping districts by economic status. The lower class shopping districts are closer to the lower class residential districts. Bus routes don’t even connect lower class residential districts with upper class shopping districts. Residential and shopping districts were laid out this way to maximize profits and efficiency.
    Three people got on, one man and two women. They all looked average. They had average hair color, average eye color, average height, and average weight. There was something peculiar about the man though. Maybe he combed his hair the wrong way. Or maybe he read too many books.
    The two women each found separate seats near the front. The man made his way towards the middle and sat in the empty seat next to Roland Hanks.
    "Hello, my name is Roland Hanks," said Roland Hanks. "Nice to meet you Mr.,"—Roland read the man’s name off of the identification card pinned to the man’s suit coat—"Waygard."
    "Hello Roland Hanks, nice to meet you." He held out his hand and Roland shook it.
"What’s your stop?"
    My stop? There is no stop. It just keeps going and going. If it would only stop—
    "Mr. Waygard?"
    That’s not my real name–"Oh yes, my stop. I’ve been mandated an appointment with the Pet Komestibles Corporation."
    "It would seem that we have the same destination. Do you have any pets?"
    "No, I would never—"
    "I see." It was awkward running into somebody who answered that way. Roland didn’t know how to react to it. Was this man a crazy?
    "I support it, but it’s wrong."
    "Oh," Roland didn’t want to get into a political argument with Mr. Waygard. Just a simple ‘Oh’ and a chuckle.
    Oh you just laugh, I’m the one almost with the answers. If only—"Excuse me."
    Mr. Waygard wasn’t following protocol. You weren’t supposed to question the Pet Komestibles Corporation. People just don’t do it. Mr. Waygard could see through Roland enough to see that he was making him uncomfortable. He then got up and found another seat in the back near the rear wheel casing.
     "So what’s your stop?" Roland asked the man across the aisle from him.
    "I’m going to Shopping District H3."
    "You’re not planning on buying anything specific are you?"
    "No."
    "I don’t think I caught your name."
    "It’s Lester, Lester Smith."
    "Nice to meet you Lester. What do you do?"
    "Well, the machine said that I should become an oil man."
    "Is that so?"
    "Yes. I’ve almost completed 3^rd vocational school in District E2."
    "There must be lots of money in that."
    "There will be, once I get started."
    "You’re going to be a very happy man once you get started."
    "Yes, that’s what they say."
    The bus came to a stop and Mr. Smith got off. The Pet Komestibles Corporation facility that Roland was going to was just one of many. The operation would be simple—just some simple surgery.
    The bus was now slowing down. They were crossing the border from the Mid-Southern Prefecture into the South-Eastern Prefecture. The line of vehicles at the checkpoint gate wasn’t very long, especially for that time of day. The border officer quickly checked the identities of the passengers and let the bus continue. The busses here always run on time.
    In the far distance to the South, a black cloud could be seen. Nobody on the bus seemed to take interest. They had all seen it before. Mr. Wayguard took interest, but did not show it. He had his ideas of what was other there. Factories, power plants, homes, people! Nobody knew for sure. And because there was no available answer, nobody thought about it.
    They passed an abandoned consulate. In the back of the bus a lady named Mrs. Mondour was having a conversation with Mr. Waygard. Mrs. Mondour had gotten on a few stops before. She worked for the prefect. She worked for a flag promotion and selling division. You could tell by her uniform.
    Finally, they reached their stop.
    Roland Hanks, Mr. Waygard, and a number of other people got off—all mandated by law to donate their extra organs to this corporation. But it’s good for the economy; we need dog food for the poor.