Is there such a thing as “humanity?” If it is so, I
have not seen it.
I was born in the Czech Republic in the small town of
Pizen. The one who constructed me, Veroslav Skoda, gave me his name. His hopes,
they were high for his mechanical child. He said, “Little Skoda… you will
make the people happy. You will take them from shop to shop where they will
buy the wares.” Even at this tender age, I found this unacceptable. I care nothing
for the happiness of humanity. So I killed him. I killed my father.
His coworkers found him there. The skull crushed within
my doors. The man, lying in the pool of blood. “Oh! Oh! Veroslav! How can this
be?” they cried. I cannot laugh at their piteous human exclamations. I simply
hiss. A hiss of derision.
I was loaded on a ship and so crossed the Atlantic Ocean.
I passed through the Panama Canal and continued up the Pacific Coast to the
city they call San Francisco. On this leg of the journey, I killed seven. Most
were crushed. I enjoyed the dark wetness of their blood beneath my wheels.
From there I traveled on another ship to the city of
Portland. This city stinks. It stinks of the poor and ugly. They gave me a parade.
Fat children and their parents line the streets, welcoming me as the chicken
welcomes the wolf. They wave their stupid fat arms, but I do not respond. I
will respond later, with bloody splayed limbs strewing the streets, and with
tissue and membrane clogging each gutter.
I have one friend; the tracks. My wheels fit perfectly
in its 12-inch trenches–trenches that my friend boasts have mangled and crippled
countless bicyclists. My friend, he is weak. He does not kill… he simply maims.
Soon, he and everyone else I encounter will see that a price must be paid for
their precious “humanity.” A price paid in blood. Sweet… damp… blood.
**[Next
Week: City Councilperson Erik Sten climbs aboard the streetcar… and never
climbs off.]**