The Farmer

The Farmer - by Dustin Duong

He was a farmer by any other name. With his instruments, he harvested and shipped his crop to wherever it was meant to go. This particular farmer, however, was never tasked with the cultivation of his harvest. This occurred biologically: naturally in the world. He simply had to search for the matured product, and reap its wealth. Although seemingly so, this was no simple task, as it required a true eye for this method of farming and great skill in the trade.

Not to mention that his crop was not very conventional. Rather than work with seeds and plants, and toil in the mud and soil, his yield was oftentimes found in areas of greater urban development. It required far more time to mature, however, but accordingly so. One cannot anticipate a quality result should they not be willing to wait. Though, a vast majority of the world's supply of this particular crop had already matured, sprouting new offspring on a daily basis. He simply had to choose from which he would harvest, and transport this choice to his facility. This farmer had amassed enough money to hire others to do so, but had decided to save it for other purposes. He was quite an affluent man because of this, and because his harvest was far more value than the common crop.

He was an organ farmer. His crop was the specialized tissue found within humans, matured over the course of their lives. One may not see very much of a market for the inner workings of people, but that's simply because they've not searched in the correct places. The economy which revolves around the purchase and sales of organs are not on any public market, unless one were to look to a medical institution. It's found where criminals and their overlords search, and where immoral merchants profit: the Black Market, an illegal economy in the bowels of society. Very few people know of this market, and merely because the wares and currencies pass hands furtively. Every day, another shipment of firearms is sold to an overlord, or another pack of narcotics is purchased by a man with a farfetched business plan. And, this farmer was simply another portion of these exchanges.

In truth, it was not the most ideal thing to sell. Much like food, organs can rot if left unused for a certain period of time. So, it was left to him to determine when the correct time to harvest was and who to sell it to. There had been some incidents in the past, however, where he'd arrived at a particular compound, and was nearly killed for having brought decayed goods to the consumer. Other times, he'd been overcompensated for the high quality of his crop. It was an unpredictable occupation, but one that aided in the flourishing of his savings account. So, he persisted in pursuing whatever organs his benefactor required.

He was a self-taught surgeon, in a sense. He knew precisely where his crop was located, and where to create incisions to reap them. It was very simple work in his perspective. Although, that may be due to the fact that he's merely tasked with removing the goods, rather than ensuring that the patients emerge alive--though, he's never valued the human life very much. He thinks them to be morally corrupt, arrogant creatures, including himself. Perhaps this is why his work comes easily to him, and why death was of very little significance to him. Even so, he still carried remorse for those lost by his hand, and sympathized with the family unknown to him.

Of course, that's never prevented him from doing his job. Not only was he a realist, but a capitalist as well. He believed that he would not thrive if he did not work, though having earned enough money to retire comfortably. And, yet, he felt that he did not have enough. Thusly, he continued his pursuits in this occupation, and would do so until he could bear it no longer. This was his philosophy, as sinister as it seemed. He, however, viewed himself as another working citizen.

And, to his customers, he was.

* * *

The day of November 12, 2014 was an unseasonably warm one. The Farmer had become accustomed to chilled breezes and overcast skies. On this particular day, though, the sun's radiance shone brightly without a cloud in sight, and the breezes became warm gusts, as though it was a remnant of spring. Rather than locking themselves inside, people took it upon themselves to perhaps do some yard-work, or achieve some rare minutes of exercise. Children rode their bikes and tossed balls amongst one another. And, the Farmer was reading a novel on his porch, phone in his lap.

He pressed his index finger to his tongue, and then to the page, turning it, engrossing himself in the words within the book. It had become a "cinch," he called it, to read, as he'd done so multiple times in the past. Even, he never grew bored of the book. It was similar to the interest one would find in a novelty item--a trinket: although it seemed small and relatively insignificant, one could simply not release it from their possession, because of the great intrigue they carried for said item. He could not set the book down, no matter how many times the words graced his eyes. And, so, he was found reading this book on this November day.

The Farmer placed his book beside him on the patio table he had on his porch, and took a sip of the coffee he'd brewed. He swallowed and leaned back, sighing contentedly, lifting his phone to his eyes with his other hand. Whilst enveloped in the author's words, he'd missed a phone call from an unknown number.

Most likely a customer, he thought. Or, perhaps, a telemarketer. Deciding to return the call, he dialed the number and lifted his device to his ear. It began to ring, producing a buzzing sound that reverberated throughout his ear. He'd never enjoyed that sound, although he was unsure as to why. After thirty seconds of having to bear the sound, he was redirected to voicemail. The words spoken in monotone frustrated him as much as the buzzing. Why would they call if they didn't want to sp-.

A chime indicated that he'd received a text message. "Five orders. One brain, a stomach, two lungs, two kidneys in each." The Farmer raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was his largest order to date. No one had risked such a request before. He began his reply in true astonishment and disbelief. However, the previous message was quickly followed with: "six hundred thousand per successful order," and he stopped. That was the highest amount anyone's ever offered him. Though, he was certain that he wouldn't be receiving anything if the entire task was not accomplished. Even so, three million dollars was very appealing to him. This was where his humanity applied to him. He understood the risk, but he was also very well aware of the reward. And, despite the great risk, he opted for the reward. Three million dollars would benefit his account very much.

He replied to the consumer with a short "Deal," and stood from the bench, stepping inside. His house was spacious enough to allow ample walking space, but everything was situated in close proximity with any other application or furniture to give it a sense of compactness. It was a contradictory floor plan, but one that the Farmer preferred. He, himself, was a man of this nature: a man of contradiction. Though he looked to be a homely man on the outside, his mentality had been worn down in the time that he'd been alive--in all that he'd experienced. He'd seen very many things, most of which being byproducts of his business endeavors. Even so, he felt that he was sane enough to continue on his selected path.

Stepping into the kitchen, the Farmer took another sip of his lukewarm coffee and set the mug down the table. He opened a drawer beside the stove and produced a concealable gun, slipping it into his back pocket, covering it with his shirt. He'd never been forced to use it before, but one can never be too cautious. He prophesized that his business would fall in one of two ways: a retaliatory victim or an over-aware authority figure. Of course, he took every precaution to ensure that neither of these became a reality, this firearm included as one of them.

As he began for the door, he straightened his shirt and brushed the dust from his pants. The key to luring his victims, he knew, was to look as though you were taking them out for a night. No one would trust a man whose hair was disheveled underneath the hood of a sweatshirt. They would, however, easily entrust their safety in the hands of a well-kept man, sporting a white shirt and black slacks.

It was like this that he began his trek to the nearby bus station, which lay only a ten minute walking distance from his house. Surprisingly, he hadn't been to the bustling station for a while, opting instead for people further from his place of work. It would do him very good to concentrate his selection within a single area. That would create suspicion amongst his community. So, instead, he traveled to the airport, the mall, and the occasional back alley to hunt, amongst other places, that is. This way, he was able to increase his yield whilst decreasing his likelihood of being incriminated.

During his stroll, he inhaled deeply, reveling in the warm air. He felt empowered today, as if he were invincible. He felt as if he had the ability to do absolutely anything with very few concerns.

Then, he exhaled and was human again.

Soon, he arrived at the bus station. It was early in the afternoon on a Saturday, so there were very few people at the station. Most of the buses were parked in their respective slots, empty save for laborers that were busy sweeping or washing away at the dirtiness. The group of others was composed of businesspeople in suit-and-tie, people in casual clothing, and those who looked to be vagrants. It was a diverse bunch, much like the groups of the city in which he resided.

The Farmer selected a vacant bench to sit on and observed as passersby walked along the street, some rather expeditiously, others without a single care. It was bothersome, to say the least, to know that there were those still content with the collapsing world. There were people similar to the Farmer at large, and they still seemed to be optimistic. He shook his head in disappointment and averted his gaze to the people standing about around the bus station. It would only be a matter of time before he found the ideal subject. Though, he didn't know how long said matter of time would be.

So, he waited.

After half an hour, a man in with a briefcase sat beside him and unfurled a newspaper, beginning to scan the words on the page. The Farmer glanced over at the man, who promptly turned his body to face away from him. Five minutes later, a bus pulled up and he was gone.

Another two hours flew by as he waited for someone else to take a seat beside him. He watched as people arrived and departed from the bus station: people whom he knew he would never see again. And, he was fine with that. He was well aware of the vastness of the world, and that he would never be able to experience it all. He saw nothing wrong with that.

Something that he was bothered by, however, was the long waits that he had to endure to acquire what he desired. It was now mid-afternoon and was now considerably warmer. He remained sitting on the bench in the sweltering heat, not daring to flee to the safety of the shade, intent on selecting and persuading his next harvest to follow him before falling unconscious due to hyperthermia. The uncomforting temperature was only made more so in the wait for his picking.

Finally, someone had decided to come to his bait: a young lady who took a seat beside him on the bench. She was in close proximity to him, which, under other circumstances, would have bothered him. However, she was beautiful. She had brown hair that cascaded to her shoulders, and an attractive face. She was slim, but was very modest about it. He almost regretted that he had to do this. If he hadn't become irritated at this unbearable heat, he would have liked to take the time to acquaint himself with her.

She took notice to his occasional glances, and smiled warmly at him, initiating conversation. She told him about herself, and vice versa. They'd come to the conclusion that they both loved to read the same books, watch the same movies, and do the same things--for the most part.

"I have a few hours if you want to do something," she told him.

He agreed. This was easier than I anticipated.

* * *

After they'd arrived, the Farmer invited her to make herself comfortable whilst he prepared a meal. Unfortunately, she was not a vegetarian, which the Farmer would have preferred. He was not a vegetarian himself, but he found it mentally taxing to work with meat. It reminded him greatly of his job, though he knew there was a distinct difference. Though, both human organs and beef were edible. He generally shied away from this correlation. He often shuddered at these thoughts before quickly suppressing them.

After a few hours spent in the kitchen, he presented the fruits of his manual labor: a steak dish garnished to make it appear to be much better than it was. He wasn't proud of his cooking skills, but it was sufficient enough not to be lethal if consumed--unless he chose otherwise. This was not one of those meals.

They spoke over their steaks and wine, of their lives and themselves. The Farmer avoided the topic of family, as he had none. They shared laughs and consoled one another. They formed a bond in a single night. Slowly, he fell in love with her.

He thought it to be a shame that his work took precedence over his life. He continued the conversation, shifting the point of interest to local news.

"I assume you've heard of that Farmer roaming the town," he said, taking a sip of his wine. It burned in his stomach, but it was a comforting burn.

His guest nodded. "Yeah. It's really scary, actually. To think there's a madman running around chopping people open." She shuddered.

"Of course it is! The concept of his crimes, I mean. As for the man himself, he may be a very kind soul! Perhaps he's a decent person!"

She swirled the wine in her glass, chuckling at these notions. "How would you know?"

"Well, between you and I..." He leaned in close, indicating her to do the same, pausing for a moment. "I know him just as well as I know myself. Primarily because I am the Farmer," he confided. He watched as her face shifted from disbelief to terror, and she stood abruptly and started for the door in a sprint. He stood and grabbed her arm wrist forcefully.

"Let go of me!" she screamed. Placing a head over her mouth, he took a knife from the table.

* * *

He was downstairs in his basement, a steel structure before him. He'd had a large freezer installed underground so as to have somewhere to store his product so that it wouldn't rot as quickly. Inside, there were metal shelves with white, Styrofoam boxes with labels. Organization was the key to business, as it would allow resources to be found much more easily. The Farmer knew where everything was, and how he could obtain it. He was the sort of person that refused to deviate from his linear style of living, because it worked. "Function over aesthetic," he'd always tell himself.

Needless to say, the ones who'd erected the small structure didn't see his vision of organization. They were confused as to why he required a freezer in his basement. He told them that his current occupation was as a butcher, and he needed somewhere to store shipments of meat. They didn't question him much more beyond that.

They did, however, questioned him when he paid for the project in physical money. He could see the question in their expression: "How does a butcher pay for this in cash?" In hindsight, compensating them in that manner was not the greatest of ideas. However, he quickly corrected this mistake by elaborating upon a career that didn't exist, telling the contractors about every aspect of the business.

Regardless, he now had a bit of storage space.

His "date" was a healthy woman, offering all of the organs required to successfully achieve an entire order. Though, he would have liked to spare her; it was awfully lonely around his house. But, the economy waits for no one: not even those that are befallen by love.

Placing the Styrofoam boxes of bodily structures on their respective racks, he marked the order number with permanent marker. It was on rare occasion that he would have multiple orders fulfill at once, but he preferred to be prepared for it should the event arise. He grinned at his work, and exited the enclosure, shutting and locking the door.

He realized how content he was with his career. He maintained full reign over his business, and very few people could restrict him from doing what he pleased. Not only that, but he'd aspired to be a doctor when he was younger! After failing medical school, this was as close as he could come to becoming one. He was fascinated by the human body, but lacked the passion to save people. So, instead, he farmed from them. He studied the anatomy as he removed the collections of tissue, observing the dependencies that some parts of the body had on others. It intrigued him greatly.

He went upstairs, and prepared some coffee to soothe himself. His work did not necessarily frustrate him, but he truly did enjoy the woman's presence. Perhaps it was because he did not often talk to people, but he felt very secure with her. He knew that his life was subject to drastic changes at any given time, but around her, he felt as though the world around him would always stay the same. It was a wonderful feeling. Perhaps it was a mistake to-.

No, he told himself. Everyone must suffer in some way to ensure that others do not.

Even so, he mulled over this for hours afterward, remaining in his chair long after the contents of his mug were gone. He slept there that night.

* * *

Today, he'd decided, he would be off to the mall to find more prospective harvests. Rather than walk, he decided to drive there in silence. Generally, he listened to the radio in the car, but today was different. He found much more comfort in silence for whatever reason.

Ten minutes afterward, he pulled into the parking lot of the shopping center. It was moderately crowded today, many of the parking spaces near the entrances occupied. It was much more popular when the Farmer was younger. Then, it was much more difficult to find a parking space anywhere. Now, it was a rarity that you wouldn't.

Eventually, he selected a spot that was situated a decent distance from the structure. He walked to the one of the entrances, and sat outside, examining the front. It had gone under a great deal of renovation and reconstruction. It now featured more glass and angular protrusions to conform to a vision of modern architecture. His gaze fell to the streams of people entering and exiting the mall. They seemed entirely content--or oblivious--to this change.

He remembered how his father held his hand whenever they came here, walking past the benches outside and into the building. The young boy would ask his father to tell him a joke, to which his father responded with an unoriginal pun. The boy, however, would laugh and hug his father tightly. Once inside, the man would buy his son a toy and treat him to ice cream--always a double scoop of mint chocolate chip with extra sprinkles. Every time, his father would begin coughing and hacking, which worried the boy who questioned him about it.

"It's nothing," he would tell the aspiring Farmer. And, so it remained for years afterward.

Soon, the roles were inverted, with the Farmer taking his dying father to the mall. It was he that treated him to ice cream, and aided him in the shopping. He still held his father's hand and told him jokes. When he coughed, the Farmer understood.

He slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. That was far too long ago. It was no use thinking about it anymore. His father was long gone and he'd been alone for a long time.

Coming to his feet, he walked through the doors and was greeted with the various smells of a shopping mall food court. He turned right and begin walking down an avenue of stores. Many of the old businesses had been replaced by newer ones to accommodate the ever-changing trends of the population. He was unsettled as to how easily people changed a monument of his memories. He was accustomed to change, but this was different. This was where a portion of his childhood was.

After some time, he found a man who advertised himself to be "buying old cars!" The Farmer told the man that he owned one that did not function correctly.

"That's fine," the man said. "I'll just swing by and take a look at it."

"Are you sure?" asked the Farmer.

"Yes, I'm sure. We could head out now, if you'd like."

What sort of person would agree to be led somewhere with "old cars"? Although it was stupid, it did make his job much simpler.

With even more luck, the man had parked his car relatively close to the Farmer's.

* * *

Once they arrived, he guided the man to the backyard through a fence. There was a raised deck with a few chairs and a barbecue grill. Beyond that, there was a shed beside a small vegetable garden. Not only was the Farmer one of organs, but also one of vegetables from time to time.

To the man's surprise, however, there was no car, nor any indication that there ever was a car. "Where, exactly, is the junker that you told me about?" He darted his eyes around, looking for the car, nervousness flushing over him. Gradually, he'd realized that following the Farmer to his house was not such a brilliant idea.

Whilst the man's back was turned, the Farmer scanned the area nearby for a weapon. He found none. He glanced at the shed, knowing very well that he could simply sprint for the shed and fumble for a weapon, but by then, the man would be long gone. He was cautious and didn't take risks. That was simply in his personality: being calculative. This careful disposition, he knew, would compensate him later.

He grabbed the confused buyer and placed a hand over his mouth, tugging at his head, waiting for a-

Snap!

* * *

The Farmer, once again, found himself in the storage freezer in the lower levels of his house, reprimanding himself for a reckless acquisition. He should have better prepared himself, perhaps even have made a plan whilst driving to his house. Instead, however, he improvised. He'd been distracted lately, which was greatly unlike himself.

The man's car had been a van: the sort that one would see a group of four children being driven in by their parents. It was very likely that this man had children, and the Farmer was aware of that. He'd just orphaned a child--or perhaps children--and widowed a spouse in the name of money. He frowned, but remembered that he had to do so to earn money. But, he realized the damage that he'd done. In a single order, he was rid of his love, and caused a family to be abandoned. Though, he carried very little remorse. He preferred not to dwell on the past.

He repeated the locking process from earlier, and proceeded to climb the stairs into the living room. Walking out of the house, he stepped toward the van and ran his hand over the hood. It was covered in dirt. The smudges were in the formation of small hands with skinny fingers. He must have been with his children before heading off to the mall.

"I'll be back soon, kids," the Farmer could imagine him saying. The man, he envisioned, was a replica of his father: a man who cared for his family, and would go to any lengths to ensure that they lived comfortably. Perhaps this man was searching for a job to support his children.

The Farmer walked to the side of the vehicle and slid open the door. Inside, there were toys strewn on the seats, and even some on the floor. There was a notebook tucked in a nook. Removing it, he opened it and read it.

"For Megan, Charlie, and Adam: I hope that you can make use of this one day," it read at the top of the first page. The rest of the sheet, however, seemed blank and insignificant. As he perused the book, however, he say that there was a ten dollar bill neatly folded and placed between each page. The Farmer quickly closed the book and tossed it back inside.

Walking into the house, he remembered his date's purse. He made his way to the dining table and began rummaging through it. There was very little of value in there, aside from some money and credit cards. But, the Farmer believed in earning his own money.

Beneath the lipstick, hand mirror, and collection of other items, there was a compact composition notebook--a diary, perhaps. He read that, as well.

Dear diary,

I hope that my parents are okay. The flight here could have been shorter, but it was worth it to make peace with my family. It's been a while since I've seen them. They've always rejected what I did for a living, but I think that they were ready to accept me again. Which is why they called me here. I just hope that they can forgive me.

He turned the page.

Dear diary,

My parents invited me to dinner. It was a nice place, although a bit cheap. But, that's my dad for you. Won't spend a dollar to get anyone anything nice. The cheapskate.

That's not important, though. What is important is that we exchanged apologies! They were remorseful for ever kicking me out, and rejecting me completely. They regretted having let go of me as their daughter. And, I apologized for ever walking out on them when they needed me most: the time when they were both sick, and they needed my brother and I to care for them, but I just left to run after a boy.

Funny thing what love will make you do.

He closed the book with force, dropping it back into the purse. This is what he'd caused. The damage was done. It was irreversible. Perhaps he was a "madman" or a "psychopath." But, wouldn't that make all capitalists insane? What made him different, aside from his practice? He was very well aware of the fact that his profession was unorthodox and, in some societies, taboo. That was the basis of free enterprise, was it not? Some people undertook some practices to generate revenue, whilst others did other things. With every export of fruit, there was an equivalent amount of exported weapons.

Perhaps his life was not as clear and concise as he would have liked it. What did ten years of the farming business to do him? He was once impervious to the psychological effects. Why did it begin to affect him now? He hasn't changed much over the years, has he? Questions flew all about his mind.

Before he realized it, he'd picked up his phone and called the police. He sprinted down the stairs into his basement, nearly tripping and hitting his head on the concrete floor. He took a hammer and sat against the wall, facing the freezer.

* * *

A patrol car arrived half an hour later, and men in black uniform exited the vehicle, walking to the porch. One of the men knocked on the door, receiving no answer. He knocked again, much more forcefully this time. Yet again, there was no answer.

They were not legally permitted to enter the house, as they did not possess a permit. So, they returned to their car and left the scene.

* * *

Two days later, a missing persons' alert had been issued for the man looking to buy old cars. His name was Alex Davis, and he was meant to return home a few hours after he'd arrived at the mall. He never did.

For a week, the search persisted, urged on by his wife and three children. They were absolutely distraught at his disappearance. The children begged the investigator that arrived at their house to "find our daddy!" Fatigued after a long questioning session, all that he could do was smile and promise them that they would, though he knew that they wouldn't.

Davis' wife remained in the kitchen, scratching at her arms.

For a time afterward, the searching ceased, nobody able to find any evidence of a body or anything otherwise. Then, there was a revelation, at least three weeks into the search. Two patrol officers remembered seeing a van that matched the description of Davis' parked in front of a suburban house.

Twenty minutes after the testimony, officers stormed the house, ransacking the place. They opened cabinets, flipped chairs, and moved everything in an attempt to find any incriminating items: weapons, missing identification, the victim's DNA. They rummaged through the house for a long while before one of them found a door that had been painted to blend into the wall. It led to the basement.

Down the flight of stairs, they found a vault.

The Farmer laid in a pool of his blood, fingers unnaturally bent and broken, a gash streaking his head.

In his hand, there was a note.

"To redeem myself for all the wrongs that I've caused."