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Crown Casino
The new building reared up like the Emerald City colourised gold. Most of the power generated for the state now went into powering the array of lights which shone on the new building twenty-four hours a day. Oil tankers no longer unloaded their cargo at the docks; they were seized by small pleasure craft before they even got into the bay, their sides pierced, oil siphoned out and taken to the new building where it was refined by sullen machinery in the basement. The combustible fractions were pumped out to a series of torches, bright yellow flames flaring out every fifteen seconds. It lent a kind of circus air to the whole thing. The unusable sludge was pumped out into the river. The two guards stationed near the front doors weren't armed, unless you counted the candy-cane-striped banners they carried. In an emergency, they could doff their jester caps and bash people with the billiard-ball-sized bells attached to the points. Their primary function was to greet guests. They didn't even have to filter out the unwanted, because none of them would dare to attempt entry. The guards hadn't seen anyone fitting that category for months. They hadn't seen any rich people, either, but that was probably due to some kind of seasonal lapse. One of the guards saw a furtive movement in the shadows down near the river, as if the legendary giant rats were emerging. Or perhaps more bodies were floating out to sea from the inland factories. The motion gathered into a long, ragged row of grey and brown shapes dragging themselves up the muddy banks, joined by others who had crawled out of the empty city streets. The two guards moved closer, shared a look of confusion as the unwanted crawled out of their winter lairs. Over the roads which had not seen traffic since the new building had been finished, across the immaculately cared-for lawns, past the fountains which dribbled stale cheap champagne, over the gold-edged concrete paving, up the steps. Limping, diseased peasants dressed in rags, stained bandages and strips of cloth torn from banners which had been set to fly over the city. Banners which had advertised the new building, ironically enough. They were not people who bought new cars. They were not people who would take a chance at the horse races; they were not people who could tell one end of a horse from another (unless they were trying to eat it). They were not people who took advantage of fly-buys. They were not people who worried about their superannuation funds. They were not people who travelled overseas for their holidays. They were not people who cared about the cholesterol content of their diets. They were not people who paid mobile phone bills. The crowd (not a mob; they didn't have the energy for a mob dynamic) crawled up to the doors and halted before the guards, as if the shiny buttons on their mock-Sergeant-Peppers' uniforms repelled them back. There was a moment's silence before one of the guards spoke: "What do you lot want?", tilting his banner towards them as if to say 'I know how to use this thing, you know'. The prole at the head of the crowd simpered, ducking his head and making clawing motions with his bandaged hands, splintered nails clacking against each other. "We... have come to throw off the winter chills.” |
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