Triffooper Saxelbax

The Villainy of Solitude

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When facial and fingertip technologies replaced cell phones, the open office concept achieved new heights. Gone were desks, workstations, and conference rooms. Offices and other nooks met the same fate. What emerged were huge swaths of open space across which employees moved everything from chairs and tables of all sizes to couches and even counters. Walls were considered the product of an antiquated mindset. Most members of the workforce loved these “officeseas”—Lane Difford hated them.

Difford, a designer at Glimmer Collective, had created the firm’s highly profitable, albeit controversial augmented reality game “Decorating with People’s Intestines.” Kids loved it. Parents . . . not so much. He conceived and developed the idea while alone in a small alcove. Then came the officeseas movement, and with it the “obliteration of separation.” 

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For the next five years, Difford struggled to summon a new concept that would be as successful. He’d get a kernel of an idea, then a creative team would slide a couch next to him and start brainstorming, or he’d be in the elevator and a projection of a colleague would appear. Distractions.

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The Ovary changed all that. Difford first saw the structure while looking down from Glimmer Collective’s office on the 121st floor of Svelte Chicago. It appeared nothing more than a white blip on the street. Most of Difford’s colleagues called The Ovary an ugly waste of space. However, a few praised it as a much-needed rebellion against officeseas. 

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Triton Venerus, one of many VPs at Glimmer Collective, joined Difford by the window that day, then wiggled his fingers. The projected image showed Venerus standing triumphantly above a dead leopard, the victim of his latest trophy hunt. “Look at that beauty,” he said. “That beauty cost me thirty thousand.” 

Difford said, “You know I hate that.” 

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Venerus laughed. “We’re all waiting here, Difford. We’re waiting for another best-seller.”

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Difford gestured toward the office, where three employees pushed a conference table, and another two moved a large screen. “I need somewhere to concentrate. I can’t get a moment alone.”

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“Teamwork,” said Venerus. “I have confidence that you can do it. And this time, I’ll celebrate with an elephant-hunting safari. That’ll probably cost me forty large. Hey, maybe I’ll let you touch a tusk.”

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Difford left for lunch. As the exterior elevator approached street level, it offered better views of The Ovary.

The accessible ovary-shaped room was embedded in the L’s structural system, and a thin staircase connected it to the street.

 

The Ovary, meant to offer people an alternative work environment, had no owner. Rather, it was gifted to the City of Chicago by a nonprofit. It met severe criticism for “over-glorification of the artist” and “elevating solitary achievement above group production.” 

 

Frustration surged through Difford as he passed a coffee shop. Couches, booths, and large chairs moved around a centrally-located kiosk like so many skaters on a rink. 

 

A gentleman descended The Ovary’s stairs. Word was that the pod was intended for writers, artists, designers, and other creative sorts. In short, people like Difford. 

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He ascended the stairs and was greeted with a payment screen. It said occupants would be billed at $25 an hour, and could stay as long as they wished. All proceeds would go to a charity selected by the previous occupant. The gentleman before Difford had specified Reduce to Flourish, an organization that encouraged people to have fewer or no children to reduce humanity’s toll on the environment. Difford fingertipped his payment, then the door puckered open.

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An hour and a half later, he emerged. During the following weeks, Difford repeatedly visited The Ovary. While inside (and alone), he developed content that was digitally monitored and critiqued by a massive gamer community. 

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A year later, Triton Venerus was returning from lunch when two young adults with AR eyewear motioned as if they were throwing something at him, but their hands were empty. They followed him and continued the throwing motions. 

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Five more gamers had joined in when he reached the next block. By the time he arrived at the Svelte, Venerus was surrounded by hundreds of AR gamers (including several employees of Glimmer Collective). Boos and taunts of “coward” or “big strong man” rose from the group, and they all hurled nonexistent projectiles at him. 

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The gamers broadcasted to tens of thousands of other gamers a photo of Venerus with a dead leopard. The display beneath the photo said, “Triton Venerus, shame on you!” and it showed a number that continued to rise: 754 . . . 756 . . . 760 . . . 766.

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They were playing “Shame the Hunter,” a communal game that gave players points for throwing digital maxi pads (heavily laden with blood and other muck) at real trophy hunters. The more hits a target received, the higher he or she ranked on the “Shamerarchy.”

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“Shame the Hunter” was created by Lane Difford, who had left Glimmer Collective and started creating games . . . independently. 

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Triffooper Saxelbax is an emerging (and often grating) voice in the unsplatterpunk subgenre. He attempts to write stories that are “too scatological for human consumption” and “excessively excessive.” When he is not writing, he stir-fries vegetables and decorates pine cones. His work has not been translated into any other languages, nor has it been nominated for nor appeared in the year’s best so and so. Saxelbax’s mental exertions have caused numerous regional power outages.

 

The Villainy of Solitude first appeared in the Theaker’s Quarterly Fiction UNSPLATTERPUNK! 2 anthology.

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