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Daily Mail

He knew the bulb was going to blow.
Fucking halogens.
There had been a little buzz in the control for about four weeks.
Quiet, but incessant.

One of the forgotten little stores stashed ‘out back’.
He could hear the little sizzle of electrical cable, the reminder that things were powered by something far more powerful than the guy who had to replace the lightbulbs.
He kept them in another store, on another floor;

Halogens, frosted lamps, flouroscents, longlife energy savers, halostars, starlites, stashed in neat piles of boxes high on the shelves
He considered going down and getting a new halogen, but he decided to proceed in the dark instead.

It took quite some time before they could bring themselves to refer to him by name.
They refused to acknowledge that he’d hung around, done his time, and that he wasn’t going anywhere.

He was part of the team.

And it bugged them.

He could barely contain his contempt, not because he thought he was better than them, but because he knew they thought they were better than him.
Somewhere along the line they realised that he worked like a dog, almost under their radar, but not entirely unnoticed or unmentioned.
They had to keep their eye on people like him. He was there, no contract, on his own terms, doing all the shitty jobs nobody else wanted to do.
He was underground. They were elevated, like satellites, watching.

He descended to the floor below, walked the long empty passage, the procession of open doors waving him through, held back by unseen magnetic forces.

The vending machine greeted him, offering the same electronic promises it did every other day, He resisted its evils.
He was eating an orange, keeping up his Vitamin C. He was laughing.


from the transcendents, released November 11, 2014


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the transcendents Christchurch, New Zealand

The Transcendents are based in Christchurch, New Zealand. The second full-length album - Dirt Songs - is OUT NOW! Download for free or grab a 12" heavyweight gatefold vinyl copy while ya can!

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