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THE BOOGIE MAN
Plot

The Boogie Man
(Volume One)
First Act

A1) The Overture
A2) Worthless Piece Of Shit
A3) This Is It
A4) The Mayhem

B1)  ≠ Anthem
B2 )The Whole World’s Ghetto
B3) Dolorem Ipsum
B4) What Is Going On


There’s a huge party in Boogie Man’s honour. Everyone is cheering his name. “You’re our saviour, a new Messiah. You saved us from the night… ”
The party’s packed with some very odd characters – bold Asian guys dressed in white buttoned-up collarless shirts, holding huge black umbrellas above their heads; there’s Dimitriy, called Dim, short, fat, unshaven black guy, dressed in whatever he could lay his hands on (as ever), his head full of thick dreadlocks, painted in all colours of the rainbow, with one pink and one yellow glass on sunglasses on his face, surrounded by quite similar looking crew; there’s also a bunch of barely twenty years old kids, with the hoodies covering their faces and heads, while their fingers never stop typing on the screens of their mobile phones…
“Everybody in the house celebrate the good news. Let’s have a party now!”
It’s just that Boogie Man cannot grasp neither what he has done, nor what’s the celebration all about, nor why this is happening. In fact, he can’t even remember when it all started…
Ah, yes. That day in the office…
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It was an ordinary Friday. The only difference was the envelope waiting for him beside the computer keyboard on the table in his box. He didn’t have to open it. He knew what’s inside. The same job position for seven years. He had watched others leave – going up or going out looking for some other job. He wasn’t interested in any of the two. He wasn’t even interested in his own job. He would just come and leave at the same time, Monday to Friday. Without wishing anything. It was just a matter of day when he’ll got fired. Not a single company needs someone like him. Companies want loyal, dedicated, devoted… He wasn’t like that. He’s just a worthless piece of shit. He waited until 5 pm to go home with the others. He didn’t have to. There was one reason only – every Friday, at 5 pm, she was there, in the Starbucks on the corner. Darla. With her long silky hair, full lips, curled eyelashes, long, well-shaped legs… Everything’s expensive on Darla and every Friday she waited for the one who’s paying her to be so beautiful. For Boogie Man, it was enough just to look at her every Friday, even for five minutes, but now he wouldn’t have the chance to do it anymore. He won’t have any reason to be there every Friday. He took another longing look towards the Starbucks. He could not see her through the window panes, wet from the rain that kept on falling, but he knew she was there. Darla. He knew he could love Darla, but he couldn’t afford her…
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He went down the soaked street. On the crossroad with a huge boulevard, the police made a cordon and stopped the traffic and the people going home from work. The huge crowd of protesters have clogged the boulevard. They’re carrying signs, blowing the whistles and shouting against the President and the Government. A bold Asian guy dressed in white buttoned-up collarless shirt and black jacket passed right beside him almost poking him in the eye with a huge black umbrella he was holding over his head. “You can’t cross the street now, sir”, said the policeman standing right by the traffic lights pillar. “If you cross now, the cameras up there will catch you in that crowd, and it will look like you’re one of the protesters, and that would be noted in your files forever”. But I’ll be late for my train, thought Boogie Man, and the next one is an hour and 15 minutes later. There’s only the Express between the two, and it doesn’t even stop at that station… “Dimitriy don’t give a fuck about that”, he suddenly heard a soft voice beside him. There was a short, fat, unshaven black guy, dressed in who knows how many pieces of wardrobe at the same time, with head full of thick dreadlocks, painted in all colours of the rainbow, with one pink, one yellow glass on sunglasses on his face. “Dimitriy’s always there where the shit is”, he said, grinning to the police officer, and then went straight into the crowd of protesters, jumping and making faces towards the cameras on the traffic light pillars. Boogie Man just stood and waited in the rain. He looked around and saw beside him a half a dozen kids, barely in their early twenties, hiding their faces from the rain with large hoodies, constantly typing something on their phones. Like some weird cult, he thought…
Passing by the old lady that’s always there, selling some half-withered flowers from her basket, he was not in a hurry anymore. He knew he was late. And it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He climbed the stairs towards the empty railway platform and set on the bench. It really doesn’t matter. He untied his father’s old tie, put it around neck and tighten it as hard as he could. Then, he climbed on the bench, tied the other end of the tie to the lamp post by the bench and moved his foot forward… “So, you’re sick and tired of wasting your life?”, he suddenly heard the voice from behind. He looked over. The old flower-lady? “Well… come on in”, she said nodding her head towards the stairs lit in sick colours of mustard and rotten flash. Boogie Man got off the bench and went downstairs… Like puppets in the House of horrors, everywhere around him, the memories started to jump in… Bulling in elementary school, getting beaten in high school, getting scorned by his teenage crash, loved purely like any teenager could love, leaving the University without a degree, the untimely death of his parents… “Run fast as you can, Mr Boogie Man!”
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What is going on? What is going on? That was the only thing that was passing through his head amidst the chaos surrounding him. The last thing he heard was the sound of the Express rumbling through the station…
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Dirty white walls surrounded the room. There was a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, throwing dim yellowish light, creating huge shadows. Save from the simple wooden table and chairs, and the framed black and white Mao’s photo on the wall, the room was entirely devoid of any furniture. He stared dully towards the guys in white buttoned-up collarless shirts and simple black jackets, holding huge black umbrellas above their heads. “If you feel like nobody… And you don’t have any control over your life… If what you earn is what you are… Then, capitalism must die!” He didn’t understand why they are saying this to him, nor what they want from him, nor why he’s there at all… He just felt uncomfortable. And he liked it. Not feeling uncomfortable, but feeling anything at all. It’s been long since he ever felt anything. Even something like that…
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Dimitriy’s flat was filled with the sweet scent of marijuana. Dimitriy sat laid back on the bunch of colourful pillows thrown all over the floor. The joint was passed around by the bunch of guys looking like his clones. “The whole world’s ghetto”, drawled Dimitriy with his soft voice. “You just pay your bills and then you die and no one gets out alive. It’s just… When the government kicks at your front door, ask yourself are you going to wait for them with the gun in your hand, or kneeling on the floor.”
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It was a huge abandoned warehouse where they’ve walked in circles, hundreds of them, with huge hoodies on their bowed heads while their fingers were flying over the screens of their mobile phones. He looked at them from the gallery. He couldn’t figure out where that voice’s coming from. “Dolorem Ipsum”? The very pain? Day in, day out, he was looking at those words on the memos where he was to put in meaningless words… (Do)lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit... “Everything is just an information”, said the faceless voice. “The one who controls the information, controls the Universe. Every smart machine has just a bit more memory built-in than needed and we’ve filled that storage gaps with the true information. About every company. Every war. Every politician… And when the time comes, the truth will be out there for everyone to see!”
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On the bench at the empty railway station, looking at the ever-growing puddles under the heavy rain, Boogie Man started feeling sorry for himself for the first time. “Poor Mr. Boogie. You’re maybe dead already, and you’ll never know.” And who knows what’s happening when we die after all? What is reality, and what is a dream? Suddenly, a tune came through his head. A tune he heard at the party thrown in his honour: “Let us celebrate what you did today!” But… That party hasn’t happened yet? And the ticking of the clockwork bomb kept echoing in his brain...

(End of First Act)
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The Boogie Man
(Volume Two)
Second Act

C1) Longing For Darla
C2) Zeroes And Ones
C3) Illegal Control
C4) N.E.W.S.

D1) Good Morning, Mr. President, Good Morning, Fellow Citizens
D2) Start The Revolution
D3) Tic Toc
D4) Leaf On The BreezeIt‘s


Friday evening (again).Boogie Man stood in front the entrance of the Starbucks. He could see Darla in there, sitting in the corner as she did each Friday. “What have I got left to lose?”, he said to himself and walked in. She just rose up her beautiful brown eyes hidden behind long eyelashes towards him and said nothing. “She knows who I am…”. Without any words, Darla stood up and passed by him towards the door. He went after her…“Good evening Ms. Darla. The same suite?”, the receptionist greeted her, without even looking at Boogie Man. On the outside, the six storey hotel was almost unnoticeable, but inside it was lavished with plush curtains, leather sofas and armchairs, tables made out of solid wood, heavy carpets and crystal chandeliers. “No security cameras”, thought Boogie Man for himself, “a new kind of security for the rich”. No one will ever know who was in. They’d started making out the very minute they entered the elevator. Everything was exactly like he imagined it would be. Everything. Even the room, the bed, her smell, lips, skin… Even when she went down on him…
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She was still asleep when he left. Back on the street, for the first time Boogie Man realized that everything in his life led him to this moment. He now knew what he has to do. He will organize all the weirdos he met to start the revolution and screw up the system. He'll use Dimitry to organize street demonstrations, and Maoists too, and those techno-cult kids to put all new, true data on the web once he blows out the Tier 1 internet hub in the basement of his former job's building and open them the line to do that. “All we need are zeros & ones”. If the whole world is online now, then the World Wide Web is the right place to start the revolution…
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The plan was set in motion. Tens of thousands people gathered on the streets of the capital. The police forces formed cordons to block the protesters come closer to the government buildings, and started emptying all nearby businesses buildings. Boogie Man, using his old biometric card, took the opportunity with all that commotion to enter the building where he used to work and went straight to the elevators and then two stories bellow the parking lot in the basement, right where the huge servers were. There was no one in there, just rows and rows of giant computers, sterile clean floors and walls, lit by cold LED lights and a humming of the cooling system. But something went wrong. Out of the blue, without any warning, the police started brutal attack on the protesters using sticks, rubber bullets, tear gas… The crowd ran away in panic, falling, stomping over each other.
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Away from the capitol, Mrs. Tweedle Dee and Mr. Tweedle Dum, had just finished their lunch, preparing to watch the news. Their old TV set kept blinking. “Just hit it on the side”, said Mrs. Tweedle Dee to her husband. The picture was there again, though black and wight. The news went on and on about some far away terrorists and some predatory pedofiles and some glamorous persons and some sport and weather – the usual “fear & fun” script. All of the sudden there were some headlines about demonstrations in the capitol, but everything was mixed up, and you could not tell who started the fight, nor how did it end. “Oh, it looks like there has been another protest in the capitol”, said Mrs. Tweedle Dee. “Idiots and junkies”, replied Mr. Tweedle Dum and took a large sip from his beer can.
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The reports of the clashes went on through the night and in the morning every radio and TV station announced that the President is going to address the nation. “Dear fellow citizens”, started the President. “In this glooming hour since last evening...”, and then went on blaming the protesters for the violence and the chaos. “They just want to put the nation in the state of anarchy!”, the President screamed to cameras… “And by the power invested in me… I’m imposing the Marshall law.” The silence overtook the room and the whole nation went quiet.
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Large units of heavy armed special forces of police, backed up by armed vehicles were cruising the empty streets. The whole city looked like a ghost town muffled into eery silence. No car was running, no people were out. All you could hear was the sound of heavy vehicles and irregular thumps of policemen’s boots. All of a sudden, the metallic sounding voice echoed through the air. “Capitalism does not equal democracy. Democracy equals government of all the people, by all the people, for all the people… ” The policemen started looking around trying to figure out where’s the source of that annoying voice that kept on and on.“Start the revolution now!”, said the voice before the police located the loudspeakers on the rooftop of the nearby building and rushed up the stairs. That loudspeaker system wasn’t the only one.From the top of that building they could clearly see that there was another one on the rooftop of the building just a block away, and another one, another block away, and another one and who knows how many more… “We are all the people… We are all the people… We are all the people… Start the revolution! NOW!” kept echoing over the empty streets.
They’ve summoned choppers to make the noise and suppress that annoying voice…
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The clockwork bomb started ticking. Locked in a vast hall deep under the surface, Boogie Man was assembling the clockwork bombs, one by one. Drops of sweat were falling down from his forehead. He was breathing heavily. Suddenly he heard the noise of the huge crowd. He lifted his eyes and found himself on the crossroads of avenues, right below the traffic lights. “It’s time to walk, Sir”, said the officer. Boogie Man looked at him in surprise and the policeman simply smiled back. The boulevard was filled with huge line of protesters. It didn’t seem to end. Ever. Boogie Man took a deep breath and stepped into the crowd.
“Stop”, said the voice.
Boogie Man looked around, but there was nobody there. The streets were empty. Not a single soul to be seen. He stood alone in the middle of the street in a ghost town. “Hello, folks”, said Boogie Man. The world he sees now is the world of inequalities with leeches on the top, sucking the life and blood from the masses. But he’s here now. He’s not Boogie Man anymore. He is THE Boogie Man. The one to be afraid of. The one who will deliver the world from slavery. The one to liberate all. Oh, yes, he is big, huge. Taller than any building. He sees himself stomping with he’s enormous feet over obese rich swines, crashing their government servants with his large hands by dozens. Nothing and no one can stop him now. He himself will save all – he’ll blow the whole world out and then he’ll blow up the minds of people with the new knowledge…
And the first bomb in the chain exploded and the rest just followed one after another. Vast amount of data, carefully prepared, started pouring through the net through millions and millions of old telephone modems that helped avoid the momentary collapse World Wide Web…
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Michael stared at the black screen of his Nintendo. The battery was gone. He raised his eyes towards his mother sitting next to him, but she was too busy typing something on her smartphone, who knows what, and who to, with the smile on her face. Michael sighed and looked down. He hated Fridays. Each Friday his mother would take him to his father’s place and went on with her life for the weekend. He liked his dad, but he would rather stay at home over the weekend to be with his friends. It’s only that he’s still not old enough to be even asked about such things. He’ll be twelve soon, and even that’s not old enough. Bored to death Michael looked through the window of the Express rumbling through the evening, while raindrops slid down the window pane as the train rode through the dark. The only thing he could see was just his own image in the glass. Passing by the empty railway station, lit by cold, white lights, the train slowed down a bit, and just for a brief moment, Michael thought he saw a strange silhouette of man hanging from the lamp post and an old lady sitting on the bench right beside him. He quickly pressed his face against the window, hoping to take a better look, but the Express had already passed the station, and all that he could see against the overwhelming darkness was the distorted reflection of his own face in the window pane and running drops of never ending rain...
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(The End)

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