Rust

He picked up his car keys, careful not to touch the metallic blade and left the house, listening for the satisfying click of the lock as he slammed the door behind him. Of all the difficulties he encountered in his life, Anthony had always found locks and keys some of the more distressing. One of the few devices that had evolved independently in all of the worlds most advanced civilizations and its parts were almost exclusively made of metal. 

He hadn't had time to grab breakfast, so he headed for the drive through of his nearest place. He could've gone in and got served for free, but it was a hot day and he could already feel the sweat on his temples, so he decided not to risk any encounters. He wound down the window to press the telecom, but shook his head. Metal buttons. He remembered a meeting about this, somewhere in the depths of his mind. Cheaper to produce a whole unit out of metal than to create rubber buttons to fit in it. He hit reverse, and headed for the office.

The lack of food made Anthony irritable, and the traffic into town wasn't helping. He decided to head the long way round, past 56th and 9th. He'd rather be moving than sitting behind some asshole taxi driver, and probably wouldn't take much longer anyway. He pulled across the next lane and headed away from town.

He realised he hadn't been along this way for sometime, and at first the new developments made him worry he'd taken a wrong turn. His sat-nav looked good though, so he carried on. Hell, who cared if he was a bit late today. It came to him now why it had all changed anyway, a recent initiative by the new mayor to develop the - what was the phrase he used? - artistic integrity of the city. This area had been targeted for redevelopment anyway, and new colleges, galleries and studios must have sprung up before anyone could question what the fuck artistic integrity even meant.

He could have lifted the city beyond the shit-hole it had become, given the chance. His father had owned small cinema, and as long as he could remember he'd sit next to him in the projection room, watching his Dad change the reels, and waiting till he was old enough to do it himself. And he had, a couple of times, when he was a teenager, before any of the problems started. He had it all worked out. Business College beckoned, then he'd breeze his twenty's honing his skills. Eventually his father would retire, handing him the cinema, by which time he'd have the knowledge and business acumen his father never did. He'd raise the cinema far and beyond its station.

The plan had gone well at first. He'd aced college, and had worked his way into middle management in a small building developers. But by then, his problems had begun. He could still remember looking at his hole-punch. It was as if it were a plasticine model, that had been squeezed slightly too aggressively. He shrugged it off at first, and moved on, but more and more situations began to arise. Staples would work at first, but then, after he'd find the papers falling away from each other when he got home. He'd find himself with coins that were decaying almost before his eyes. And his key. He'd have to get a new one cut almost weekly before he had worked it out.

Twenty, even ten years ago his problem wouldn't have been so bad. The climate was different back then, not so hot, a man could spend months without having to worry about sweating like an SOB. Then again, ten or twenty years ago, his sweat wouldn't have been so... potent. With the worlds population exploding, the megacities sprawled. It had become easier and cheaper to live off takeaways than to shop in a cramped supermarket and cook in a cramped kitchen. Anthony had never been one to worry about his health, and knew what he liked, so he probably had takeaways more than most. All the salt and other electrolytes in these foods were more toxic than most people knew. The body, being cleverer than most people, did know about this, so tried to get rid of them. Mostly through sweat. Electrolytes accelerated the rusting of metals. Anthony's sweat was abrasive, and in a world of iron and steel, this could cause problems.

Whether he had some underlying problem to compound this, Anthony didn't know; he didn't want to go to a Doctor to become their specimen, to bring out at conferences for them all to pontificate over. He'd read that his underlying heart problems might not have helped, and could induce excessive sweating, but in the end it didn't matter why it happened, just that it did.

At first, he couldn't cope. He stopped going to work, and sat around all day afraid to touch anything, after he managed to dissolve his fridge door handle, and then short circuit his lamp. Slowly though, he began to handle things better. But he couldn't face his former colleagues and decided to move back with his Dad, help out at the cinema now, so no one would know. This had turned out to be a bad idea. He could just about cope with everyday life by then, but handling projectors and film reels was a different matter. The business wasn't doing well anyway, and Anthony was just making things worse. Changing a reel mid-film was difficult with gloved hands. His fathers patience broke one day when the glove got caught in the projector on the opening night of their Sean Connery weekend, for a showing of Goldfinger. It had been his favourite film on release, and his old age had made him ratty.

He broke it to Anthony the next day that he was selling the cinema. The usual bullshit arguments reared their heads, peace in my old age, you need to go and find your own path, but Anthony knew it was so he couldn't drag the business through the mud. When he'd walked out the house that day, it was the last time he saw his father, who had a heart attack on holiday to see Fort Knox, paid for by the sale. Anthony wasn't saddened by the news. He'd found ways to blame his father for most things in his life by then, and was glad to be rid of the old man. No, by then, Anthony had grander plans for his life.

Anthony’s mind had wandered, and he was surprised to find himself almost at work. The bright golden arches over the car park stood like a depressingly forced smile over the lifeless industrial estate. Not unlike the smile on the receptionists face as he walked in.

"Good Morning Mr Wilson, how are you today?” - And before he even had time to answer –“The months investment reports are waiting on your desk."

"Thank you Amy", he managed, before entering the elevator. It was Amy, wasn't it? He thought to himself, before realising he didn't really care.

He walked to the desk and allowed a smile to himself. The investments were all looking healthy. He himself had pushed the idea of marketing in film, and by buying out the food vendors as well, it had paid off well. Combined with the Olympic sponsorship, the summer was set to be a record breaker, with millions upon millions of the public set to have little choice but to purchase their food. The stage was set. 

Along with the investment reports were the most recent chemical analyses of their products. To conform to the masses, they had had to bring their salt levels right down. Anthony saw this as a set-back at first, as salt was the basis of his idea, but it led to innovation. He had investigated others, as well as increasing levels of potassium nitrate. As long as they had low-salt plastered all over their advertising, it was assumed that their food must be healthy. 

As Anthony read the main analysis, he realised they had discovered what he had been looking for: Sample Electrolyte 4578. Combined with a particular fat, it had the addictive properties of nicotine, enough to get people hooked, but not noticeable enough to be caught by the food regulators. The body, after processing the compound would then reject 78% of the electrolytes, anyway it could. And most importantly, when mixed with urea in sweat, the liquid produced would burn through metals quicker than stomach acid.

Anthony glanced back at the sales projections again, smiled, unlocked the bottom drawer, and pulled out the wooden handled revolver.