I am a factory owner. Located in the industrial zone of the city, where the sound of machines and the smell of smoke and ash polluting the air raise no concerns. I employ plenty of workers here in my factory. A couple dozen, maybe more. Last I checked, some men had gotten their hands, even arms stuck in the machinery. They had to take some time off to heal. Of course I have no intention of hiring them again. After the injuries they suffered, they would never again be even a fraction of the usefulness they once displayed. No matter the duration for which they labored.
Tell me, brother mine. What is it that brings you here to this lovely factory of mine? Is it the men wailing in agony, or the dust that gets stuck in the back of your throat? Which is it? Now, a kindhearted man such as yourself would take pity on the folk and the unfair working conditions. You see, we are not children any more. It is time we face the reality of the world. At the end of the day, we are all trying to provide our family with the life we never had. Isn’t that so? Am I not simply doing the same as they are? We’re all looking out for ourselves and the ones we hold dear.
I have been in this business for twenty odd years. I’ve invested unimaginable sums of money into this establishment, and still continue to do so. You ought to oversee the state of the factory. The cost to maintain it. Simply to keep it running. The walls are rotting, and parts of the assembly line are constantly clogged. Hell, every time there’s an accident I have to shut the factory off for the entire day. The rate mechanics charge these days, bloody ludicrous. You would not believe it. Who pays them? Not the workers who caused the accidents due to their sheer incompetence, I tell you that.
They should be grateful for me. Grateful that I’m feeding them. Grateful that I gave them work when no one else did. They were out rotting in the streets, begging for someone like me to take them in. Offer them labour and the littlest of wages. They constantly complain and demand more than they deserve. There are fresh workers lined up outside, offering to work for a considerably cheaper hourly rate than some of the men you see below. I do take pleasure in rotating them regularly. It is, after all, in my best interest. I get fresh hands who are willing to work longer for less pay. What more could I want?
Come here, take a look out the window. Do you see how small they look, how many there are? Individually they are nothing. I have gifted them with a purpose to stand for. Provided for them in the only way I knew how. This, I cannot do any longer. I have been in this business all my life. I can no longer tolerate the smell of the smoke or ash. You need to continue what I have built. I cannot let my life’s work go to waste. What do you say, brother mine?
The man had backed away upon hearing this proposal. His shoulders sank, and his brother’s arm no longer held him within reach. He uttered words that offer little value to the narrative, and took one last look at the workers through the window before being sent to join them.
The workers rushed to observe the factory floor that had struck like thunder, covered in glass, and painted in red, when they were whipped by the fury of the owner ordering them back to their posts.
“For god’s sake, now I have to get new windows.”
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