Ludditown

The shiner walked specifically through the tunnel as his shoes ick-ick-ick’d along the floor. The squeak was a product of dry sneakers, which is funny for a man who took care of others shoes.

The shiner was ick-ing along to a neighbor hood where his skills were needed. A place where men knew some old secrets which once benefitted society but harbored ideologies of centuries past. Ludditown it was called. The man arrived at his spot: the subway stop for the neighbor hood. Just as he arrived he heard the coming of a train.

CHUCKACHUKACUKACOCKCOKCUCKCHUKC

The train rambled making noise erratically. The train pulled into sight as bodies of young men flew up and down – like Animaniacs – as they pumped a jigger. Coming into the stop, both stopped and began to yank on the brake that would slow down the single car that they pulled behind them. The car had no roof and looked vaguely like that boat in that movie. Y’know the one with the kid and the crazy guy and the chocolate factory and the scary orange guys? Yea, that one.

SCCCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

The train scraped to a stop.

Several scrambled out and they stumbled over those who remained. By this time the shiner had already set up shop. A man looked at the shiner and walked over. He looked a proper Luddite, one who could very well live up to the neighborhood’s name. He had grease in his hair; starch in his shirt, far too much frayed fabric in his wool trousers, and suspenders that hiked his pants past his navel.

The man plopped himself down with a resounding:

FLARP

The kind of unintentional noise that even Grandma would smile at.

The man flopped his shoe’d feet into the face of the shiner. The shiner halked up a large lugie he had been storing since breakfast and, with little deliberation, spat it upon the man’s shoes. PLOP! Using a dirty rag the shiner rubbed the shoes clean. The spit corrected the corrected leather.

The man paid, got up and left. The shiner sat there waiting for another customer who needed his corrected leather corrected.

Some people aren’t just borne back ceaselessly into the past. Some people bornded… borned?... boobed?... Well, that one isn’t right… beared?

Well anyway, some people row like the dickens (haha, get it?) to that green light. It’s at the end of the tunnel. Or at least that’s what I heard from a man wearing corrected leather. Pfff. What a cheeseball. Everyone knows that you have to go all the way or not even bother at all. Dabblers have no place in society. Except the part when they’re our society.