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Tending-Towards-Indigo
The compound is surrounded by monofilament cyclone fencing. In the exact centre of the fenced-off area is a structure like a giant nissan hut; half a barrel made of corrugated plastic. Inside, several air-conditioners labor to keep the air at a temperature which prevents the occupants from spoiling. Inside, thirty rows of fifty. Soldiers, dressed in camouflage pants and shirts, routinely short haircuts, hands behind backs, standing at attention. Unmoving, except for the occasional twitch of an eyebrow. They just stand there, waiting. An electric jeep whines up, carrying a general from some foreign army. His skin is a funny yellow-green shade, as if his image had been videotaped, taken to another country with a different video standard and then returned via a poor quality pirate copy. His flat cap is balanced precariously on his shiny bald head. The front of his uniform (which is a odd shade of green, tending towards indigo) has more braid and decoration than your average Discordian jake-letter. He steps out of the jeep and strolls past the ranks of soldiers, inspecting them. He carries a riding crop, which he brushes over their faces, their eyes, trying to get them to blink. No response. Tending-towards-indigo grunts his approval. He is sauntering down the fourth row when he spots it; a hairline crack that starts underneath a soldier's left ear, runs down his neck and stops just above his right nipple. Tending-towards-indigo frowns. He goes back and looks closely at the others. Most of them are unblemished; but one in every eight or nine soldiers has a fault, a tiny discontinuity, peeling paintwork, weather-warping, poor sanding or finishing. Tending-towards-indigo strides between the ranks now, not bothering to walk along the rows. As he gets towards the back, the faults are more obvious. The casual inspector might not have noticed them; might have glanced at the first row or two and let it go. This won't do. |
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