COMMUNIST PLANET

The actors remove their polyester space suits, slowly with their shoulders slumped. They look depressed and overworked. Tired. Alienated from their labor by the bourgeoisie parlour tricks of the propaganda apparatus.

You’re tired, too. Tired of the lies. Tired of never getting what you deserve. Another day without joy. Another day without the perfect burrito.

You clear your throat to speak up over the fans:

“Listen. You don’t know me, but… I’m fed up. And I can tell that you’re fed up, too. We’ve got food systems and water recyclers. The means of production are right here, in our hands. We can make it work, right here. We don’t need to pretend anymore.”

The director wipes his face with a sleeve and then nods, like he’s seeing clearly for the first time. “You’re right. If Mars is communist, I am communist.”

There is total agreement.

The dusty set becomes a small commune. Everyone does their share. The tanks bubble with new life. You become an autonomous node of workers, one in which everyone has a say in their own destiny. To each according to their need, and from each according to their ability.

Days pass. Crops grow. The well-connected Hollywood director, who has been employed by the Department of Defense since their first feature length, begins high level talks with the food court. Everything feels bold with purpose. You almost forget your old life and your old job at the e-mail factory. One morning, after days of no contact, the director returns, holding a bag of burritos like a trophy kill. “The burrito place came through. Solidarity forever.”

Everyone gathers around their burritos. It’s like a miracle. You take a bite of yours, savoring the smoky beans and fresh salsa. Your toes curl in ecstasy and you accidentally let out a high pitched moan. It is better than you could have imagined. Probably better even now, as the labor has sweetened your appetites and you have become one with your fellow man.

The euphoria is short-lived. As you swallow, you feel a tightness in your chest. Your arms start to feel heavy. Around you, others are slowing. There is a wild panic, and then voicelessly, an understanding. A lethal dose of omega-6 fatty acid content, which can contribute to inflammation when consumed in excess, has been placed into your beans. Of course. Seed oils.

Footsteps echo on the catwalk above. You are powerless to crane your neck.

Your vision is going dark, but you keep chewing as if the flavor will carry you through the darkness beyond.

“Did you really think Uncle Sam would allow this on his watch? I hope there are fiestas in hell you commie freaks.”

You hoped so, too. You hoped so, too.

END