Hat Shrapnel

Factory

 

-by Mark Holton, extravagant millionaire and kitten surgeon

 

To end war, famine, hatred.  That was what he wanted.  Mankind had suffered the ravages and utter inhumanity of one world war and it could not possibly survive another.  The Earth was changed; man now knew the depths of the sickness of war.

To end war, famine, hatred.  That was what he wanted.  It was 1923 and America was still trying to regain it’s economic composure after the Great War.  The nation’s leaders - nothing but voices on the radio, really - advised the public that things were getting better, the future was getting brighter and brighter.  But he knew different; the haunted faces of the men he saw on the streets - men that had seen war and survived, men who had watched acts of gruesome cruelty played out on brother human beings, sometimes by their own hands - told him how wrong the leaders were.  Without help, the human spirit would fall and devour itself inside a generation.

To end war, famine, hatred.  That was what he needed.  “A factory!  A factory is the answer!” thought our courageous hero.  “After all, it is 1923 and this is America!  With the combination of the hard-working attitude of the American people and the infinite imagination of the human spirit, we can create anything!”  And so a factory he built.

Brick by brick, for twenty-nine years our hero gallantly built.  Selling all of his worldly possessions, he bought a small tract of land far from any town or roads.  Living on the small scraps of food he could find or those that were offered him by like-minded peace-seekers, he spent every waking hour finding funds and seeking investors for building materials, and, when lean circumstances dictated it, making his own materials.  And every day he built.  Slowly, his facotry began to take shape.

Then the Great Depression.  Workers were not hard to find, but money always was.  Still, his efforts were redoubled and supported by the throngs of men that, despite the lack of pay, felt that a true man needed to be actively working and, if he couldn’t find a paying job, a noble one was a good substitute.  Those were good days for our hero.  Masses of desperate and humbled families were ready to hear his plans for a world without violence, without the evils of the past.  And, somehow, despite the impossibility of it, there was always food enough for the workers with exactly the right amount left over for a traveling stranger at the factory-grounds when the situation called for it.

The post-depression years were thin, but things were always thin at the factory grounds and our hero and the few workers that remained after the depression worked hard to survive while building the precious factory.  The workers built without pay, forming a tight community with their humble families and the hero around the idea of working toward a dream, toward a world-wide release from the human condition of hatred and cruelty.

Then WWII.  The second war to end all wars.  The violent infection of the human spirit spilling out over the face of the entire Earth in blood.  Our hero’s men were given guns and shipped to Europe and told to kill.  None of them returned to the factory.  Whether they survived or not, our hero never learned, but they never returned.  Still, he was more convinced than ever that working on the factory was important.  If mankind made it through this latest world-wide conflagration of violence and blood, the factory would be vital for the redemption of the soul of humanity.  All building materials were appropriated for the war effort, so he learned to bake his own bricks and put off wiring and plumbing until materials again became available.

And then the bomb.  Eighty-thousand lives extinguished with the flip of a switch.  Forty-thousand lives with the second bomb the next day.  Over two-hundred-thousand after the dust settled.  For the first time in twenty-two years, our hero did not work for a whole day.  Instead, he stood within the unfinished walls of the factory and pondered the souls of those for whom he was too late.

And then work began again.

The return of men from war brought a new workforce and the rekindled economy and victorious spirit of America brought with it new, although modest, investors, the first since the depression.  Time  had brought progress to the rural area and the intervening twenty or more years had seen small towns spread until they were within sight of the factory and roads form that traveled directly past it.  Within seven more years, the factory was completed.  The builders left.  Great machines had been built and placed.  A massive roof stood red-tiled and proud in the morning sun.  The halls of the administrative offices were shining with fresh wax.  And the door to his office proudly bore his name.  The stage had been set.  Now to fill the factory with workers to bring to pass the peaceful destiny of humanity.

He took out ads.  He placed billboards.  He hired recruiters.  But none would come to work for the factory.  The post-war economic boost left hardly a person without employment.  And still, the rare applicant refused to work at the factory after interviewing with our aging hero.  Apparently, no one wanted to work to end war, famine, and hatred.  Perhaps mankind had lost it’s innocence, he thought.  Perhaps it was too late and the illnesses of war and inhumanity had already claimed the world as a casualty that was now just slowly fading to an inevitable and violent end.

Still, he waited.  Every day he reported to his office and waited.  The few applicants became fewer and fewer over the years, and they all left without a job.  The factory and our hero grew older.  Time saw more wars come and more humanity go.  And still, he waited.

He was waiting the day he passed away.  He was found in the sad office chair in his dilapidated office, where he had always sat eagerly awaiting someone to come work in his factory.  It was 1972, forty-nine years after the epiphany that the factory must be built.  He had spent every single minute of those years thinking about the factory, about healing the world, about saving mankind from the darkness.  To end war, famine, hatred.  That was what he wanted.

The world moved forward and downward.  Shortly after our old hero’s death, the greatest factory ever built was torn down and replaced with a vaguely-purposed warehouse.  The demolition marked an important point for the human race, and how remarkable it is that the event went entirely unremarked upon.  All that remains of the factory to testify of it’s existence is the great metal sign, now sitting in a junkyard, that once stood atop the building announcing it’s presence and purpose:

 

Happiness,

Puppydog,

and

Sunshine

Factory