A parody of Nineteen Eighty-Four
Summary: Weston West, a worker at the Minipoo, becomes dissatisfied with his life in the ruined, heavily-taxed, disease-ridden and totalitarian world of Westmichigan. Finding a brotherhood of like-minded dissidents, Weston begins his fight against the evil Bigger Brother. Unfortunately, during a failed coup he and several of his fellow conspirators are captured and brought to the Minihate where they are tortured and interrogated. Will West crack and give in to Bigger Brother, or will he and his organization stand and overthrow Bigger Brother and his gluttonous regime?
It was a bright cold day in April...or maybe it was a warm hazy cloudy day in June...it doesn't really matter because Bigger Brother could make it any time he wanted. Even if it were a frigid night in December, if Bigger Brother said it was a hot, sweltering day in the middle of August, then that was what it was.
Weston West mopped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief (so there you have it, it was in fact a hot sweltering day in August) as he slipped quickly through the glass (or perhaps it was metal or maybe even concrete) doors. He nearly gagged as the odors of ochre-plantain casserole in the hallway filled his nostrils, but was careful not to make it obvious lest the Food Police caught him complaining of the wonderful meals Bigger Brother provided.
At one end of the hallway a large colored poster had been tacked (or maybe nailed) to the wall. It depicted an enormous man with gigantic rolls of flab serving as his many chins. He had a greedy, bug-eyed expression on his face. BIGGER BROTHER IS WATCHING YOUR JELLY DOUGHNUTS the caption underneath it ran.
Weston made for the stairs; the elevator was currently inoperable. It had in fact been inoperable for as long as Weston could remember, but his memory was so vague it was hard to tell. He had asked before when it was going to be fixed, and each time he received the reply, "Tomorrow." Of course, when "tomorrow" came the elevator had still remained unfixed, and when he pointed this out he simply received "Tomorrow is whenever Bigger Brother wants it to be." So he figured that "tomorrow" meant "whenever I feel like doing it," so he left it at that. Besides, going up the stairs was good exercise, and the extra power that would be saved would serve as part of the economy drive for Hate Week. The telescreen was seventy flights up, so by the time he got to the top Weston was in top shape. Of course, "top shape" was a rather ambiguous term; Weston was always told it meant you were healthy but he thought he looked rather skeletal. Nonetheless, he certainly did not want to disagree with what Bigger Brother said so he left it at that.
From inside the telescreen a commentator with oily, slicked-back hair and a flabby face was squawking something about how evil the war in Iraq was, how stupid someone called Bush was and how America "really needs change." Weston wasn't interested so he turned the volume down. However, he could still make out something about "right-wing terrorists" who needed to be "even more closely surveyed than anyone else," before the broadcast was interrupted by another commentator with a flat voice who started babbling out some figures which had something to do with the production of toothpicks. Weston rolled his eyes (with his back turned toward the telescreen, lest someone see him do it) and went to look out his window. As far as the eye could see there were buildings and construction. However, the roads were in utter disrepair; immense cracks and potholes covered every inch of the pavement. Weston had had to repair his bicycle many times due to the constant jolts and shocks but no one seemed to have any intention of repairing them in the near future. He sighed. Had they always been like this? He racked his brain; somewhere in the distant past he thought he recalled when there were actually trees around the area and the roads weren't so wide and much better kept. However the memories were so vague he could recall nothing except the continuing industrialization.
All over the sprawling urban landscape the buildings were decorated with posters of Bigger Brother. Each one seemed different, but it was a thoughtcrime to say such a thing, since Bigger Brother said they were all the same. Weston disagreed but shut his mouth to avoid getting himself in trouble. On the house opposite him, a poster with the caption BIGGER BROTHER IS TAXING YOU fluttered slightly in the muggy breeze. A large office building, three blocks down, displayed a poster which read BIGGER BROTHER IS USING YOUR TOOTHBRUSH. None of them made any sense to Weston. As he surveyed the industrialized landscape and yet another poster displaying the word SWEATSOC, the whirring of chopper blades became audible to the west. Weston quickly slipped out of view and peered out the side of his window as the police patrol hovered into view. It bounced from one house to the next, snooping inside the windows. Weston hid for a moment longer, but just as he decided it was safe to peek again the windows of the chopper exploded into his vision. He froze, horrified that he might be found guilty of thoughtcrime, for that could mean being sent to Minihate, and no one who went there ever came out; at least, not as the same person. When Will Smith had been incarcerated there, no one had ever seen him again; however, a rumor spread that when Avril Lavigne was finally released, she began exhibiting a strange taste in comedy and zombie films, which led to the belief that Will Smith had in fact been turned into Avril Lavigne. But such a story was quickly suppressed by the Thought Police, and no one ever brought it up again.
"WESTON SMITH, THERE IS A BANANA PEEL AND A CANDY WRAPPER ON THE FLOOR," the voice from the chopper's microphone boomed. "PICK THEM UP IMMEDIATELY." Weston sighed with relief, removed the trash off the linoleum floor and placed them carefully in the incinerator. "I beg Bigger Brother's pardon sincerely," he shouted back. "It will not happen again."
"You are forgiven, Weston," replied the voice. "But you will be required to work sixty-three hours overtime at the waste removal this week as penance." Finished with him, the chopper moved on to inspect the cleanliness of everyone else's homes. Weston let out a groan; this meant he would be spending nine extra hours at the Ministry of Poop (Minipoo in Newerspeak), the city's sanitation center, shoveling sludge and excrement. From now on he would have to keep his apartment as clean as possible.