Vincent put the finishing touches on his 36th painting for the month. His supervisor has been riding him about getting 40 paintings done before next quarter. He couldn’t see any way of meeting his quota, by any reasonable standards. His main trouble was finding inspiration in his newest assigned subjects. There was something about pink flamingos that just didn’t make his mind click, like the flowers and fields he loved to draw in his spare time. He pushed his thoughts of open fields of freedom and fresh air away to the back of his mind, for in 10 minutes it would be time to return to his living quarters on C deck. Vincent’s favorite meal was to be served tonight. Every Wednesday was Beta 12 Chicken-by-product for dinner, and Vincent longed for the hours to pass until he could sink his palette into the moist cube of protein. He quickly gathered up his tools and personal affects, and put them into his satchel. Heinrich, his supervisor, would be in to dismiss him very soon.
Heinrich walked down the sterile white corridor to work area 12, where his last worker for the day was waiting in anticipation for him to deliver the news that he will be working overtime. The executives had complained that quota’s were not being met, and production had to be ramped up. He hated having to explain this to these clones. Every one of them had the same depressing response, and after awhile Heinrich would just recite the same script he had used for the first 5 Van Gogh’s. Earlier in the year he had a problem with 3 of them trying to commit suicide inside their living quarters, and 2 of them tried to escape. They had cited horrible work conditions, and that they were being treated like machines. Heinrich couldn’t fathom why any of them would complain about the conditions they were in. Considering the original Van Gogh commited suicide centuries ago, he considered just being alive now to be a blessing. He adjusted his tie and looked over his schedule in his planner he just purchased, by accessing his frontal lobe, and then passed through the door as it went from solid to smoke.
Vincent became excited at the site of Heinrich passing through the smoke door. Only minutes now and he could quench his hunger and sketch his favorite subjects. Heinrich looked coldly at Vincent, “Vincent 12 you have not met quota standards set by the company this month, you must remain here for an additional 4 hours in order for your production schedule to be met.” Vincent’s heart sank into a pit in his stomach he didn’t even know he had. He couldn’t form words to try and protest the injustice and cruelty wrought upon him at this. He thought back to the words of the lady on the business negotiation videos he watched at night. Luckily they allowed him the access to the “Consolidated World Network brought to you by Whammo Burger!” “Mr. Heinrich sir, I am scheduled from 7 to 5, and I will not produce further paintings without proper compensation: i.e. overtime!” Vincent could hardly believe the words flowing out his mouth as Heinrich showed the power of them on his grimace. “Listen here 12! If you don’t want to paint any more today, then I can accommodate you by scheduling you henceforth in the furniture factory, where you will be deprived of your precious brushes and paints, and subjected to work with lathe’s and hammers! Would you like that?” Vincent had heard of the conditions in the Van Gogh Originals furniture factory from his lunch friend Van Gogh 47. There they were subjected to work on a constant assembly line of chairs and stools in temperatures reaching 98 degrees, because the plant sat next to the reactor that powered the island that Van Gogh Originals HQ sat. “No Mr. Heinrich! I wouldn’t like that. It’s just that I’ve spent all day on 4 paintings, and I’m only 4 short of my quota for this month, and I’ve so looked forward to dinner tonight! It’s my favorite tonight, Beta 12 Chicken-by-product, lime flavor! Please, sir!” Vincent’s demands had dropped to simple begging now. His negotiation skills would need some practice he thought. Heinrich smiled a little and then suddenly burst into laughter, “Do you think I care if tonight is your favorite dinner plate or not? There is work to be done and schedules that have not been met! You’re very existence depends on the production schedule dear #12! Now get back to work, and never bother me with this nonsense ever again! Unless, you want to be downsized that is.” Vincent remembered what happened to the “downsized”. He remembered the day they put 17, 28, and 92 on the helicopter and dropped them onto the island next to them. That’s where the company discarded the JFK’s, before they switched to producing an all Van Gogh workforce. The island of the “downsized”. “No sir. I’ll get back to work.” Vincent started to unpack his things as Heinrich passed through the smoke door again. As soon as the smoke turned to metal he threw a water cup at the door. “I am not a machine you bastards!” Vincent could feel a fire in his soul. He had felt it once before, but the company conditioning trained him to suppress it. This time it engulfed him. He couldn’t explain the change in himself. He picked up his paints and started to paint. It was contrary to his subject card that was downloaded into his cortex operating system. This was raw emotion that bristled off the brushes and mixed with the colors he splashed onto the canvas. He felt alive and free like never before. Vincent was finally making art.
Heinrich returned after 4 hours to relieve his insolent Van Gogh. Never had he experienced such a lack of respect for authority. This was common among the previous work force of John F. Kennedy’s, which thankfully were decommisioned after only 4 years of service. He would have to tell the gen-tech’s about this anomaly to see if they could rectify it before it gets out of hand. Heinrich walked through the smoke door and was presented with a Van Gogh covered in paints and a jump suit that was covered in tears and splotches where he wiped excess from his hands. “What’s this? What is this mess?” Vincent stood there with labored breathing in front of 7 paintings with vibrant colors and depictions of raised fists in front of a fire, and mountains with bright horizons and jungles with tigers bearing down on prey. Heinrich had never seen such artwork come from a Van Gogh before. “This is not what you were assigned to do! This is against company regulation number 12! This does not meet quota!” Vincent looked steely eyed at Heinrich and said, “No! This is my freedom!”