Friday, 4 April 2014
Tomatoes.
Bena Dura was a mercenary. He killed others for
a living. He hated his boss and the hours were less than ideal. He once tried
to organize his mates into a kind of union, to collectively bargain for better
rates and a decent health plan. That ended when someone tipped off human resources
and he had to deny ever thinking anything of the sort. Job security was an
issue of growing concern. Traditional forms of kinetic war making were going
out of fashion in most places. Slow acting, hard to get your head around,
economic stuff was the order of the day. Trade embargoes, subsidies and so on. There
was always Africa, which he dipped into when cash was scarce. He tried to avoid
the continent, a kind of hipster impulse to shy away from plying his trade in a
place generally considered mainstream in merk circles. Besides, certain forms
of oppressive colonialism were simply too unromantic when divorced from the
wider context of empire. A privateer in his majesty’s service was equal parts rogue
and knight. A ragamuffin hired gun on the odd coup errand was, well, just not
infused with the sort of grandeur he had imagined fighting life would entail.
There were days he hardly even felt like getting up in the morning, but he knew
he had to keep up appearances. There was always the issue of references. Burn
bridges and your next gig could be security at some tin pot birthday party. He
dreaded the prospect, because he hated kids and he definitely hated balloon
animals.
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