The Far and Unfamiliar Home

LAND 245tRm2011, A.D.13 September BUFORD// The economy wasn't hilarious. No, times were harder than they'd ever been. Irving had no idea what he was doing, nor did any of his officials. And Buford didn't know what all the machines were for, or why they had to be so big that they needed so much oil.What HAD been hilarious was how he'd flat out left his post when he heard the news that they wanted thirty new rigs built in three days. You know how long it'd take Buford and all his best guys to build six rigs? Two months; four if you wanted them to be great. And now, here he was, sitting at his office desk and collecting unemployment checks. Buford hated to be taking the money he hadn't worked for, but it wasn't like he was going to find another job anytime soon. This new government was about all there was to work in, and Irving was vengeful. If he exed you out of the circle once, you would never get back in. Buford sighed and turned a page in the paper. The jobs section shrank every week. Making small interference with his thoughts was the humming of the television set, a female newscaster droning on about the current events, very little of which he actually recieved. "Recent surveys show a minor downturn...and will correct the situation...and a new policy that guard dogs will be posted...technology allows...we have entered day three of the SFAR project...thousands into custody within the day...President McAllister states that it is ultimately in the best interest of the nation to relocate these figures. All relocated figures will be sent to prison functions out of the country..." Buford snorted. Right, suspicious figures. Of course. And this was the moment the phone rang, the moment where Buford picked it up to hear his desperate mother's voice begging for him to get out of his home. And then, screaming, static, the call dropped.Inhaling deeply, Buford stood up from his chair. Well, that couldn't have been good. But mother is always right, no? Buford scanned the walls of his little apartment. Only the essentials...not bringing clothes or soap or anything like that. A man could survive on his own. He needed the big guns. Finally, his eyes settled upon the large axe hanging over his door. Iron. Finely sharpened. Guaranteed to slice through a cinder block like butter. And only a decoration...until Buford gripped it firmly by the leather-bound handle, removing it from its position over the door. Just one more thing. Buford, axe over his shoulder, went down the hall until he came to the vent. Now, to tend to the matter of unscrewing the metal front. He had a screwdriver in the cabinet, on one hand; on the other, he had an axe now. With one thrust of the blade, a good-sized section of the drywall was crumbling around a deep slit. As for the vent, it was history, crumpled and clinging to the axe blade. As Buford reached into the vent, he checked his watch with his free-hand. 7:00. An hour before guards came out. Ah! There it was! Buford pulled the wide, thin case out of the vent. Shouldering the axe again, he nudged open his door and darted into the night. The woods seemed a good location for a man. Now, all he needed was an alibi. Well, he had time for that. The nearest woods was forty miles away. //~ ''Portal opened in sector I-XRE...seventy-seven in width. Activating shields...shields succesfully activated. Now closing sector portal M-QDER. Portal opened in sector E-RTH...width HMN regular. Activating shields...error.'' ~ (Next: Candace)