Soaked Tyrants

Soaked Tyrants - Part Two

Simon awoke in the morning. He summed the strength to get out of his bed. He sat up and looked at his alarm that read 7:33 A.M. He opened his bedroom door. Then went across the hallway and opened Alexa's door. He then said, "Rise and Shi-" Then he remembered what happened, hoping it was just a dream. He must have forgotten that he walked. Simon's mood drastically shifted. He moped around his apartment. He made scrambled eggs for himself. Something just feels off without Alexa.

After breakfast, Simon dressed himself in his uniform. His uniform consisted of one blue jacket with bolded black words stitched to his vest reading:

Frank, Simon

31st Unit

N.E.O. Police

He wore his helmet and goggles both embroiled with a swastika. He fitted his tall rubber boots and his rubber gloves onto himself. His goggles dangled from his neck. He grabbed his pea coat and briefcase and left the apartment.

His boots made a notorious sound while walking. He once again, pulled a cigarette from his silver case and lit it with his lighter. He puffed the tobacco filled smoke. When he left his large, orthodox apartment building he noticed the rain was cleared from the atmosphere. He peered towards the ground, no flooding.

He entered the station again, the intercom chimed again, he punched his laminated pass again, and he boarded the monorail again. The surroundings flew past him as he sat there, in the large metallic snake slithering through the cityscape waiting for its next victims. The city moved by so fast. No pedestrians paid any attention to it. The hiss and buzz of the anaconda never left an area untouched by its sound. Yet, no one cared of its existence.

The monorail stopped and Simon left. He rushed down the stairs, almost slipping on the leftover water from the rain. He then tried to hail a cab to get into. When he spotted one of the black, hound-like cars he grabbed its attention. The cab's electric cable snapped into another lane and pulled onto the side of the street. Its reflective window fell into itself and the man behind it appeared. He was wearing a flat cap hat on his head and a cigarette hung out the left side of his mouth. He spoke in a low-pitched, raspy, aged british voice, "Wait will it be officer?"

"Just need a ride to Precinct thirty-one, please."

"Anything for a N.E.O. policeman. Oh my son always wanted to be one, too bad he was selected for filing."

"Oh, too bad."

"Anyway the ride will cost 100 Reichsmark."

Simon entered the vehicle. The cab sped into the distance. Simon stared out the window, looking at all the leftover water puddles. He also saw all the people dressed in suits and factory outfits walking to their less important destinations. He accidentally leaned on the metallic device in his coat. He quickly propelled backwards relieved that nothing occurred. The cab finally pulled to the front of the precinct. Simon paid the Reichsmarks then left the cab, hearing the cable cord snap behind him.

He pushed inward the great glass doors of the precinct, every colleague and comrad greeted him with a friendly gesture or wave. A group of policemen gathered around a radio listening to the results of the latest football match, and the receptionist organized her contact list. Simon walked up the winding precinct stairs. On the top floor was the main offices. He stopped by his cubicle to grab a pen, then proceeded to the Gruppenführer's office. He knocked on the door and the Gruppenführer signaled him to walk in. The Gruppenführer had a buttoned black coat with a striped banner around his forearm. He wore a peaked cap with a swastika ensnared onto it. His boots and gloves were the same as Simon's, and he also wore many different war medals and trophies including the Iron Cross and the German Cross.