MAQUILADORA MAN, or Building Schools on Toxic Dump Sites by Ken Gage ©2001

The cost-benefit analysis had come back: the life of a trade unionist ain't worth a workplace safety bill introduced by a Republican congress. The torch of divine retribution was upon them. Throw in a Global Economic Meltdown and any trade unionist or environmentalist becomes an instant open target.

"Fire!"

A trade union man drops to the ground lifeless, blood still spurting out of him like red Kool-Aid. The gunmen decide to take a break and grab themselves a drink.

"Thirsty work, this," one says to another, lifting a tall glass of water to his sun-scorched lips. He drinks it dry and then looks at the glass with longing thoughtfulness.

"What's wrong?"

"Water tastes funny. Where'd ya' get it?"

"That corner bodega."

"Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh what?"

"Hexavalent chromium. Potent stuff, Juan. Carcinogen. Corner bodega has contaminated groundwater."

Juan was the first to flinch. The other gunmen waved their hands at the notion in a gesture of get-the-Hell-out-of-here-with-that-bullshit. They tipped back their drinks for a final offing. Their bond of bravery almost moved Juan to tears.

Juniper Ortega, the Maquiladora Man, acted like a "bubble" child and, having issued his warning, withdrew from Juan and the other gunmen. As far as fatal auto-immune disorders went, Juan could barely feign anything more caustic than the common cold.

"Hey, Juan, come here."

Juan marched down to the company officer straightaway.

"Yeah?"

"Cost-benefit analysis came back and...well, we're done here. For good. Have you and your men shoot one another in the head. Make it a quick one -- losing money just standing here."

Juan went up the hill to his men. "Break's over. Load 'em up! Got one more job."

Dr. Benway launched himself out of the torpedo cradle. He checked another one, but nobody was there. Hot-racks were cold, too. He must have been the last tall-fellow to hear.

The crew of the Sea Wolf was fully assembled, minus one. Dr. Benway caught the commander doling out the last of the orders.

"Speed, sir?" asked a crewman.

Submarine commander laughed. "Make it so fuckin' fast that shit flies off. Okay?"

"Yes sir! S.F.F.T.S.F.O!"

"Uh-oh." Benway knew it was hopeless. G.E.M. up above and canned fish below. He grabbed a book and sat it out. Management Made Easy. He dreamed about a private practice like nobody could, page after page -- he was a medical breakthrough waiting to happen.