Like most living organisms on the planet Mr. Smith began his day with the expectation that at day's end he would still be alive. On this day he had uncustomarily given the subject at least a couple of minutes' thought, though he was still unsure how he felt about it.
He opened his 14,383rd pack of cigarettes. That count seemed rather short to him, but the official state tabulator was generally regarded as accurate. Just out of a moment of sheer mirth Mr. Smith decided to give a gentle set of raps upon the side of the tabulator, and to some mild amazement he witnessed the digits suddenly lurched and rolled forward to 83, 84, 85....86&87. He muttered to himself "Yeah, that seems right then!"
Once the tabulator had finished resetting it emitted the pre-recorded message that accompanied all tobacco transactions. "Thank you for smoking, Mr. Smith. Your premature death will permit the state to afford care to two younger workers. Workers that are paying for your care now. Thank you for smoking". It was a computerized voice, delivering the message with cold, precise diction and completely absent any nuance, intimation or judgment.
Mr. Smith had completely lost track of which day he was on. Now if one were to encounter Mr. Smith at random there would be the inevitable impression that here was a man of some advanced years. One would undoubtedly be assured that if one were to inquire of Mr. Smith "How old are you?", a reply in the manner of "I'm seventy-some years old" would follow. Sadly Mr. Smith is incapable of providing such a response. You see Mr. Smith lives in a different age, an entirely different society altogether. Mr. Smith lives in the age of the total state. The state has long since eliminated all calendars. Mr. Smith would only, assuming that he'd offer any response whatsoever, be able to say " I'm on day twenty-thousand and something". It is for this reason that Mr. Smith had grown concerned at losing track of which day he was on.
Something had tickled his memory on the subject. He had some vague recollection of some time, probably ten to fourteen days prior, when he had checked the official state tabulator to see that he was up to day 26, 230. This number really would not hold any significance, but for the fact that Mr. Smith was registered as a tobacco user. As a tobacco user Mr. Smith had been allocated the state standard of 26,280 days, or 72 years as we might say. Mr. Smith was in complete awe at the beneficence of the total state. They saw to all of his physical needs while generously allowing him to exercise his choice to smoke cigarettes. It was one of the very few perks offered in compensation from a society that afforded one very few choices.
No one alive could really pin down the exact date that the total state was established. It never came as a declarative moment, rather more of a process. If one had to imagine then it might be an apt comparison to say that it occurred in much the same manner as the growth of mold. A thing beginning in dark, damp and seldom disturbed spaces, where it should remain undetected until such time as it had metastasized to a degree requiring a vigorous response. An insidious threat is never vanquished by half measures. Thus did the total state emerge and by the time we should find ourselves in Mr. Smith's world we would learn that there were none living who had any memory or knowledge of things being any different.
No private property, no physical currency, no months, years or calendars. No music and no churches, of course, as these are the first refuge for the heretics and malcontents. Just shut up and take your drugs. Learn to get along. Everything will be fine. Trust in the state. We have your back. We have all of you. We own you. And lest you should ever forget...
Mr. Smith had considered for a moment going to the tabulator to clarify his fuzzy recall, when instead he was summoned by the urges of nature to make for the toilet first. Mr. Smith was rather fortunate among those of his age group as he did not typically suffer from irregularity. After having bartered extra potatoes from the domicile across the hall for the prior evening's dinner, he was experiencing a greater urgency than normal. Within mere seconds of landing his bare bottom upon the seat the familiar plop into the bowl occurred and Mr. Smith let out a sigh of relief. This was rather short lived, I'm sorry to report. Within an instant of the deposit having been made a persistent and shrill beeping began to emanate from the tabulator in the next room. The display flashed red characters of <.225Kg>. At the exact same time the bowl opened beneath Mr. Smith and swallowed him whole, below the floor and off to who could know where.
Mr. Smith would have done better to have shit his pants. He should have checked that tabulator first. You see his recollection of days was more off the mark than he had thought. It had actually been 35 days since he had looked at his balance on the tabulator, meaning that he had started this day at number 26,266. A mere 14 days before expiration. A touch of constipation could have carried him through to the finish, a feat actually accomplished by surprisingly few.
In our world if there is any recognition of the term SWPF it is most likely as a form of shorthand on personal pages to signify single, white, professional female. These are, however, completely alien terms in Mr. Smith's time and place. There the letters signify Solid Waste Processing Fee. What some might dub "the shit tax". It seems that Mr. Smith had not only forgotten his allocation of days. Tragically he had failed to also monitor his Fecal Credit Index. You see the total state makes a calculation that in 26,280 days an individual is permitted X Kg's of solid waste to process. This is naturally at some expense to the state, and thus once that "X" has been surpassed a penalty is automatically triggered. Unless, of course, one had the foresight to purchase fecal credits. Sadly, Mr. Smith was not one of those.
And so it was that with that automatically triggered fifteen day penalty Mr. Smith, at least in accounting terms, was one day past his expiration. In the total state once one has reached the limit that it costs the state more to process your shit than you are worth to the state, then you become only so much solid waste. The tabulator in the next room continued to blink in red characters <79.225Kg>. Even with the abrupt manner in which it occurred, I suspect that Mr. Smith embraced his expiration with a smile knowing that he had beaten the state out of at least half a day.
In the next room the display on the tabulator stopped blinking. A pre-recorded message began as the display reset to zero. "Your time has expired Mr. Smith. The state is now relieved of it's burden to care for you. Thank you for dying." It was a computerized voice, delivering the message with cold, precise diction and completely absent any nuance, intimation or judgment.
