BIG DISASTER CITY
I woke up this morning with a bad feeling. Maybe because last night I dreamed of being chased by a gorilla in a government uniform, or maybe because the calendar on the wall stopped last month, as if giving up on keeping up with the times. This Big City has long been on the brink of destruction. Oddly enough, the brink of destruction has managed to survive until now.
I, whose ID card says Darius Bunglon (thanks to my parents who either joked or just didn't like me since birth), work as a typist for disaster fund applications at City Hall. The perfect position to witness the collapse of the city from the inside.
Today, as I walked to the office, I saw something quite alarming, namely, everything. A leaning building with cracks as wide as a toll road? Normal. Electric poles standing with good intentions? Standard. But what was somewhat new was the statue of the city's founder whose head had been replaced with a used shopping basket. The symbolism was so strong that I almost choked on air.
When I arrived at the office, I was greeted by the Head of Disaster Management, Mr. Sweaty Gundul. It wasn’t his real name, but it was a more accurate description than anything on his ID.
“We have a problem,” he said, in the tone of someone who had just realized that the water he was drinking was actually motor oil.
“What part of the city is exploding this time?” I asked through a yawn.
“Not part of it, Chameleon. The whole city.”
Oh. That’s interesting. I stared at him, waiting for him to admit he was kidding. But he didn’t.
Apparently, some brilliant architect had redesigned the drainage system so that all of the city’s water flow was concentrated in one place. Unfortunately, that place was the foundation of City Hall. And to make matters worse, today happened to be the first day of the rainy season. In other words, by the afternoon, we were all going to watch the Great City turn into the Sinking City.
“So we have a few hours before—”
“Not hours. Minutes.”
Ah, that’s better.
We were on the move, which meant we spent the time debating whether to declare a state of emergency or just run away. I chose the latter, but Mr. Bald Berkergat insisted that we should do something for the people. Who, unfortunately, had gathered in front of the office, demanding an explanation.
"We want to know why the city is sinking!" someone shouted.
"And who is responsible!" another shouted.
Honestly, this is not a difficult question to answer. The ones responsible are all of us, because from the beginning we have lived here despite knowing how bad this plan is.
But before anyone could explain, there was a roar.
That was when the Great City gave up. The sidewalks turned into rivers, the buildings swayed like drunks, and City Hall began to sink like the Titanic, without the classical music and romance. People screamed, some tried to escape in rubber boats, which had been prepared who knows when.
Me? I grabbed a floating office chair and rowed out of the ruins, while behind me, the statue of the city's founder with a shopping basket for a head slowly sank into the water, as if ashamed of the fate of the city he created.
Farewell, Great City. We suspect you won't last long.
