I remember what the world was like before. I remember when there was a culture that moved forward by creating new things. Now there is an absence of culture as the people of the world no longer produce anything but instead constantly consume everything that came before until it is devoid of meaning or context. But I still remember. I remember.
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I pull my flannel shirt tighter around me and brace against the cold wind that whips against my body. It feels like September or October, but I have no idea what month it is. It must be close to fall. When does fall begin? I don't remember, but the date is arbitrary. Calendars are a thing of the past. Only the dropping temperature and the lengthening nights signal the changing season. I look up and squint at the gray overcast sky, unable to tell where the sun hangs. Its light radiates from the shifting clouds, seeming to come from all directions at once. Impossible to tell time in such weather.
I cut across a back alley and end up on one of the main streets. Somewhere in my mind I think I can remember the name of this street, but it fades away as soon as I try to hold onto it. They got rid of all the street names, said They couldn't stand something being permanently labeled like that. My eyes move over the dilapidated storefront next to me and I recognize it as an old pizza place. A brief smile on my lips as I remember eating there years ago. Seems like an eternity has passed since then. No use dwelling on old thoughts like that, they only bring on the dark times, the bad times. Can't afford to give up now. The important thing is that I have my bearings again. I turn and head west, scanning my surroundings for any local inhabitants as I continue on my way. Always wary of running into one of Them.
All at once I realize how thankful I am for this ridiculous beard. As mangy and unmanageable as it is, the insulation it provides is wonderful. Also it helps to conceal my age which is now a matter of life and death. People my age have a hard time in this world. Earth as it exists today is only for the young. Old-timers have no place in it. If revealed, they are often killed at once. Most of the youth willingly kill themselves once they reach the dreaded 30th year. Were my true age to be revealed I think They would not hesitate to end me.
I am also thankful that their ridiculous notion of style is what has allowed me to continue living. I am able to blend in and move amongst Them without raising suspicion. When They see my long wild hair, my large dark sunglasses, and my overgrown beard They simply accept that I'm being "ironic." A single tear falls from my eye into my disgusting facial hair as I realize that I don't even remember what that word means anymore. Is that ironic, too? Fuck if I know.
A few years back They collectively banned the word "irony" from all remaining dictionaries. They felt that would be the height if irony itself. Who is left to challenge Them on such madness? That's what I intend to find out. Perhaps there are still some brave soldiers like me who are willing to rise up against our new world order. Perhaps the human race still has a little fight left in it.
I stop as I approach an intersection. Which way did that Emo kid tell me to go? I know it was one of these subway stations, but I can't remember...
My heart stops in my chest as I smell the tell-tale scent of a burning clove cigarette. I pray my senses are playing tricks on me, but there is no such luck today. There, in the semi-darkness of a dingy alley a block ahead of me, are three of Them. Two males and a female. All three are staring at me, not saying a word. I can feel their eyes on me, analyzing me, trying to decide if I am one of Them. One of the males and the female are sitting with their back against the wall, the other male standing with one hand in his pocket, the other hand holding a slim black cigarette to his lips. He appears to be the alpha judging by his abundance of accessories. The others only have a few, but the alpha has many trinkets and badges that display his rank: a ring pop on the hand holding his clove cigarette, a Japanese language Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles iron-on patch on his orange hoodie, a wallet chain going from one belt loop on his skinny jeans to another belt loop, apparently serving no practical purpose at all.
I feel the word on my lips, the word the resistance uses to describe them but never utters outside a safe-house for fear of death. Hipster.
I try not to show my apprehension and just keep walking. Maybe they won't approach me and I can just continue down the street. I can tell immediately that this is not the case. The alpha exhales a cloud of acrid smoke as I approach and steps directly into my path. I stop, showing respect for his obvious rank, but I do not speak.
He looks at me for a few moments, sizing me up, and then he addresses me with a series of cobbled-together pop-culture references and quotes from obscure films or albums, I can't tell which. I feel a subtle wave of terror wash over me as I realize I am completely out of my league. He must be from one of the newer packs because what he's saying to me is even less intelligible than what I'm used to. They're evolving faster than I feared. His words hang in the air and each passing second in which I do not respond only adds to their obvious skepticism of me. This is a test. I know in the very core of my being that if I fail to pass it there will be no more autumns in my future. I will die here this day.
My mind races. I do not understand his pseudo-language, but I cannot let him know that. Thinking fast, I make a subtle scoffing noise and roll my eyes. Though he cannot see my eyes behind my shades (a necessary precaution to hide my crow's feet) the sentiment is obvious: I think he's a damn fool and that his apparent references to obscure nonsense are dated and boring.
His body shifts subtly, his stance less aggressive. I can see in his eyes that his pride has been wounded. My effort has paid off as his two companions give out a bored laugh and the other male stands up, his body language clearly showing his intentions. He begins to talk to the alpha in a snarky tone, challenging his dominance. Their argument intensifies, but the only words I can barely understand have something to do with "Arcade Fire" and "Tracy Ullman era Simpsons" and how the alpha is perhaps not as knowledgeable on these subjects as previously thought. I use the opportunity to keep walking down the street, eventually disappearing from their view.
I turn a corner and collapse against a wall, my heart beating so hard in my chest that it feels ready to explode. I feel the cold sweat all over my body as I try to regain my composure. That was too close. If they were more acute they would have seen through my ruse and I would have been a dead man.
I pull the over-sized sunglasses from my face and wipe the sweat from my brow. Looking up, I see the entrance to the subway ahead of me. I've made it! I put my sunglasses back on and waste no time running down the stairs, gladly leaving the city streets in favor of the darkness of the abandoned subway system.
I pull the battered flashlight from my pocket and it flickers on, illuminating the path ahead of me. The Hipsters do not like the underworld of the city, there is no light to see their carefully constructed outfits. Without proper lighting they cannot impress and berate each other.
Reaching into my pocket I find the coded directions scrawled on a piece of cardboard from a Pabst Blue Ribbon case. It shouldn't be much farther now. As I move deeper into the subway and away from the alley-dwelling pack I encountered earlier I finally allow myself to relax somewhat. I should be relatively safe now.
I don't feel the bat connect with the back of my head, but for some reason I still hear the disturbing crack right before I black out.
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The pain wakes me up. A screaming twisted throbbing thing that reaches all the way from my neck down to the base of my spine.
"Whhhuuuu," is all I can manage to say as I try to move my arms to lift myself off the cold pavement.
"Make another move and I'll knock that fucking beard off your face, you Hipster son of a bitch!" He's standing over me, I can actually hear his fingers tightening their grip on the baseball bat. I do as he says and relax my arms, not making a move. He continues.
"I don't know how you found your way down here, but once the big man gets ahold of you he's gonna think of all kinds of ways to make you regret it."
Before I can formulate a response I black out again. An infinite amount of time seems to pass.
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When I regain consciousness I'm sitting in a chair. My wrists and ankles are held to the chair with duct tape.I'm in a concrete room with a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The brightness hurts my eyes and it takes a while for them to adjust. There is a door in front of me and standing next to it is a large pissed-off looking guy in a cutoff leather vest with some mean looking spiked studs on it. His hair is a series of red spikes radiating from his head that make me think of a cartoon drawing of someone being electrocuted. I can't help but chuckle, even though it brings back the pain in my head. He doesn't seem pleased by this.
"You won't be laughing when the big man gets here," he says and then he backhands me across the face. My sunglasses fly off and land on the floor. I turn and face him, smiling as blood trickles from my nose. His eyes grow wide and I chuckle again.
"I don't think you'll be laughing, either," I say, still smiling despite the fresh pain on my face that seems to meld with the throbbing in my skull.
"Jesus..." he gasps, staring at my face in disbelief. I watch as his gaze traces over the wrinkles around my eyes. "You're... how old are you?"
I clear my throat and tell him my honest age. It feels good to say it again. It's a key that's opened many of the right doors for me. It's also a weight that threatens to drag me down to hell any day now.
He hesitates for only a moment, seeing in my eyes that I'm telling him the truth. Then he pulls out a switchblade and quickly cuts the duct tape, releasing me.
"I'll take you to see him right away. Come with me." His tone is now one of respect instead of authority. I stand up and rub my wrists, then I pick up the sunglasses from the floor and put them in the pocket of my flannel shirt. No need for the disguise now.
He leads me outside and into a milling crowd of others dressed in similar fashion as him. I hear gasps of disbelief and awe from the people we pass and a silence spreads out from us through the gathered masses. Ahead of us, sitting on a makeshift throne under a floodlight, is the big man. He's tall and lanky, reclining in that esteemed seat with one leg crossed over the other. Shirtless and wearing tattered jeans, his face is adorned with a few old scars and he looks weathered for his age, but he can't be a day over 32. Still, he's an elder here. His lime-green mohawk turns as he looks in my direction. Under that light, in the abandoned catacombs of this new world, he looks more like an ancient warlord than the leader of the Punks.
We walk up to the foot of the throne and the big man waves his hand, my escort bowing slightly and backing away into the crowd. The chamber is completely silent now as we regard each other for a few minutes that stretch on and on. He doesn't seem as shocked as the other leaders I've encountered, it seems like he's almost been expecting this day. In his eyes I swear I detect a hint of respect, but his poker face is well-maintained. Finally, he speaks.
"Obviously you have a good reason for being here, so let's hear it."
I gather my thoughts, and another couple minutes pass. I feel ready and breathe in deeply, then exhale. I speak loudly and clearly, not just addressing him but the entire congregation.
"I have traveled very far to speak with you today. I'm sure I don't need to tell you the great risks I have taken on my journey. You are all here because of how hard life is on the surface for those who do not agree with the current state of affairs. This is a dark and terrible time we live in and it seems that all hope for mankind may be lost. But we have an opportunity to restore some semblance of culture to this barren wasteland.
"The Hipsters would have you believe that culture is dead, that everything that could be created has already been created and recreated a million times over. They would tell you that there are no more original pieces of music or literature, that every song sounds the same and every film is just a sequel or a reboot. They proudly demonstrate this belief by constantly devouring and regurgitating everything that has come before in a sick display of nostalgic hubris. From horizon to horizon they have stripped this land of all beauty and originality in an attempt to fulfill their own prophecies.
"But the people who were alive before The Fall, the ones who still remember the old ways, they know this to be but the ignorance of youth. Art is eternal. It will forever be reborn and it can still rise like the phoenix from the ashes of the old world."
I turn to face the crowd now, my voice rising even louder. I can feel their eyes on me, listening intently to every word.
"In the cracks and corners of this world there is a rebellion brewing. A loosely assembled resistance is forming and I have come here as an emissary of that resistance. I have already spoken with the leaders of the Emos, the Goths, and the Metalheads. I have held congress with the Jocks, the Geeks, the Straight Edgers, and even the Bros. They have all agreed to put aside their differences and join together to stave off this cultural infection.
"Now each of you has a choice to make. You can either stay here in these abandoned tunnels and continue this mockery of an existence. You can huddle together like rats, waiting until the day they finally discover your home and slaughter every single one of you that either will not conform or is past their thirtieth year."
I turn back around to face the big man, and I swear there is a slight grin on his face. I'm speaking directly to him, but my voice rises to a crescendo and fills the chamber.
"Or you can join us and together we will rise up as one and wipe those Hipster motherfuckers from the face of the Earth!"
My voice echoes off the walls and no one says a word for a few prolonged moments. The big man slowly stands. His grin spreads across his face and then he shoves his fist in the air and shouts "Oi!"
The crowd responds in kind. "Oi! Oi! Oi!"
