Hotwater Puritan

What is this dry steam? It is a filthy rumor meant to make the council look bad- that is all. Those were the headlines in the paper Mr. Johnston was reading. The paper wasn’t actually paper at all, really. Real paper wouldn’t survive long in this steam ridden world because the constant drizzle would make anything paper-like sopping wet and mold would soon come after. Rather, it was actually a paper film made up of plastics. Mr. Johnston rubbed his thick finger across the smooth film and wondered how it remained smooth, even with the steam etching the surface. He had been around too long to believe anything written in the ‘paper’. But he did consider it a sort of grounding to let him know what others were thinking. Of course, people must be thinking about the council sitting on the patents to dry steam. It just made sense. Literacy was another thing which promotes the commerce and control of its people. It was encouraged that everyone read the paper and feedback was recorded through simple yes and no questions punched by a mechanical awl on the paper itself. It wasn’t perfect, but with nearly one hundred percent return rates on the paper and a record of who each paper belonged to, feedback did tend to return to the council via the paper.

Dry steam worked but there was a complication of chemicals that a criminal could easily compromise and make an acid steam that could cause serious damage to the environment. One could see the need for silence on this matter. No use giving the criminals any ideas, after all.

Mr. Johnston carefully recorded his answers into the paper and dropped it off into one of the many vacuum tubes there to collect documents such as the ‘paper’. Carefully, he pulled another film-paper from a folder he was carrying in his briefcase. This had a list of names, some of them scratched out. He picked a name closest to the address he was at. Ms. Felic Stonefellow was next on his list to visit he decided.

Arriving at her place, he didn’t bother knocking; his key unlocked all locks in the city. “Ms. Stonefellow!” Mr. Johnston announced with a bellow deep from his massive frame. Silence greeted him and he discovered Ms. Stonefellow was nowhere to be found. Looking around her house, he noted the large pile of mail, including papers, which indicated she had not been there for quite some time. It wasn’t uncommon for people to see him coming and run, nor was it uncommon for them to simply not be there when he was due. His massive size was half again a normal persons size. That was probably most of the reason he got his job. Besides, he was good at breaking things.

The destruction of Ms. Felic Stonefellow’s possessions was a meticulously methodical process. Room by room, he left nothing without his destructive trademark. Glasses broken, cupboards smashed. Everything had to be destroyed. When he busted out a window, he noticed a gathering crowd outside. More and more such crowds gathered when he was about his business. This time they were singing something but he couldn’t make out the song. Mr. Johnston smiled once he was out of sight of the carolers and found a lamp to pulverize with particular zest. Since he now had an active audience, he felt it necessary to put on a good show. This meant lots of noise. A growl escaped his lips as he managed to kick down a non-supporting wall though he hurt his knee doing so. Likely, he would be limping as walked from this job, but it would be worth it.

Once in a while a house would already be smashed up and he would have to call up the guard for a report. He never knew if such vandals were ever caught. Once he gave his report, it was someone else’s job to see that things were set straight. It still bothered him that some people wouldn’t follow protocol.

Just then, a clock chimed a melody that caught his ear and made him pause in his destruction. From out on a small, blue building about the size of his foot, came the sounds of gears grinding, an action sound just waiting to happen. The roof peeled back to reveal a miniature woman dressed in rainbow colors, but immediately recognizable as a witch. It was the conical hat and the magic wand that gave her away. Then, her voice rose and out piped the most beautiful of sounds a clock could ever make. The witch began to move and wave her wand about in a bit of a mechanical dance as she danced quite merrily. The dance ended with the witch lifting up her conical hat and steam poured from it which then made the witch melt into the floor and the song was over and the roof moved back in place. This was perhaps the most touching of clocks Mr. Johnston had ever had the pleasure of witnessing, though disturbing considering he was on the job.

Grabbing some bricks to build a small stand in the middle of the living room, Mr. Johnston placed the unbroken clock carefully on it. This would be the one thing left deliberately unbroken in the house, he would see to that. Of course, this would certainly start some talking because it wasn’t his style to do such a thing. Something in his chest tightened up and made him catch his breath. He ran his finger over the clock makers mark, ‘OZ’. Certainly, he would be paying OZ a visit, but only to make a purchase of his own.

Once Mr. Johnston left the building, he was met with the sound of the carolers making their joy known. He used to think the carolers rude to sing joyously while he was at work but since found a way to let it inspire him to do a more thorough job. Everything he broke would be replaced in a community effort; so really, it was a win, win situation. Besides, nobody would leave behind anything that shouldn’t get broke. Mr. Johnston picked up his top hat he had left by the door and gently put it in its place atop his head. Knowing he was a scary sight if only for the sheer bulk that he carried, he knew he was scarier yet with his veins popping out from his recent workout. Using this to his advantage, he growled at the carolers and was pleased to see them flinch and some lost their voice momentarily. His job was done here.

After turning and limping off, the sound of clapping made him smile. The smile ended in a wince as his knee caused him more pain. Not surprising, it was nightfall and it was raining as it rained every night. When everything runs off steam, it rained every time it cooled down some and that would be every night for as long as he could remember. The water cleaned the city, was filtered, and the steam powered everything in the city. It really was a perfect system. Molds would only grow in places not regularly cleaned, places like the house he had just left where the owner hadn’t been returning their paper. One thing Mr. Johnston was certain of was that ‘dry steam’ was not something that would keep his city clean. No sir, he would fight for his job.


Written for

FORUM

Steampunk Story Contest  (13+) Round 3 Closed #2020491 by Save the Turkeys!

CONTEST PROMPT




"When the witches don't melt, we send them back to OZ for retraining."
This prompt is optional, and any Steampunk story will be fine.