-awkm-
Most people have trouble with their jobs.
It's not always a huge deal. Personality conflicts, time constraints, relationship pressures...there's a thousand factors that play in to why human beings don't like doing what they have to do to make a living. Some of them are big, some are small, some don't even register for the rest of us.
For me, it's the bodies.
I see them every night, pouring from the sky. Ragdolls in classy, if hastily thrown together outfits designed to offer some modicum of protection against the elements, or even against force. They tumble, God, do they tumble, until they land on the pile of broken lives below. The flow never stops. Slows, on occasion, but never stops. For most people, these dreams would be debilitating. They'd skip work to see a shrink, or watch their favorite televised drivel, poorly disguised as a "Self Help" medium. For me, it's the reason I put my pants on in the morning. The reason I breathe.
I have to stop the flow.
Every body in that pile lays there due to a corrupt, unbalanced system. Flak shots that travel too straight have put many of them there. The lumberjack, before that, created the base of my pile. I look at it now, and I can't help but feel despair. It's not every body that I mourn for. Some are where they are because they met their match, their own little Grim Reaper. Death waits for no man, however, and skill simply isn't a factor he cares about enough to postpone his judgement...although, I like to think I bring a bit of color to his world when a properly balanced weapon finds its mark.
Maybe I'm not working for them at all.
Maybe I'm working for him.
God, maybe I'm working for him.
