Assume nothing. Mistrust everything. Two simple rules. Following them should
be easy. But there were obviously those that still didn't understand. They
assumed too much. They trusted. And they died. And then the Groundsman had to
clean up the mess. The Groundsman. That's me. That's about all I do. Clean up
the mess that is left behind when someone breaks the fundamental rules.
    You think that people would have learned by now -- but no -- it happens
every day: sometims more than once a hour. Someone breaks the rules. And they
get caught. The Bushmen make quick work of those that forget. And they always
are sure to leave a wonderful mess for the Groundsman. If only I could catch one
of those Bush-running bastards. I'd show him waht happens when someone leaves 
work for a Groundsman. Everyone of us hates our job. We would kill to get
another one. And that's usually the way it goes. Cause your superior to break
the rules. Or at least make it look like he or she was killed by the Bushman,
and, you've moved up.
    If one is a Groundsman, however, one's successor tends to hate you from the
beginning. For everyone hates their jobs, but we Groundsmen hate our jobs the
most of all. And to make things worse, the new Groundsman's first job is to
clean up the mess left behind when your superior so unfortunately broke the
rules. No one cares about those that break the rules. They're obviously idiots
that deserved to be killed. After all, the rules are simple. Everyone knows
them. Only an idiot would break something that easy to follow. Only an idiot...
    A red light falshes on the HUD (Heads Up Display) projected directly into my
right eye. Damn. Another idiot. Why the hell is the world so full of these
morons? I turn around, survey the area. It is clean. Not a trace of the
Bushmen's work. Groundsmen may hate their jobs, but we sure as hell do our jobs
well. To do bad in one's job shows trust. It's an assumption that you will have
your job no matter how shoddily you do it. It breaks the rules. The Bushmen
laugh manaically. It's just the type of thing they love. Sick bastards.
    I step from the alley, and onto the street, feeling pure energy flowing
through my legs. It's time to go. I'm off like a rifle bullet, running only as a
Groundsman can, feet pounding the pavement with the tell-tale speed of a
Groundsman. A map appears on the HUD, showing me the way to my next job. I speed
along the route given, automatically computed to be the shortest route, taking
traffic and other conditions into account. Not that traffic really matters. I
slip through a traffic jam on the freeway like wind through a screen. I am
untouchable. I am the Groundsman. For a fleeting moment, I almost enjoy
myself...
    And then I arrive at the scene, and any sense of enjoyment is instantly
drained from my being. The Bushmen really had fun with this one. Too much fun
for my tastes. I scowl in disgust. If I could get my hands on one of those damn
Bushmen, oohh... An alarm goes off im my head -- time is of the essence! One
must work quickly and well -- one must not assume. One must not trust.
Especially a Groundsman. The Bushmen would love to get their hands on a
Groundman. For the Groundsmen destroy the masterpieces of death and destruction
that the Bushmen leave in their wake. To create a masterpiece out of a Groundman
would be the pinnacle of any Bushman's life.
    However, the Bushmen can only get those who break the rules. To randomly
create masterpieces of anyone would be trust. It would be assuming that the
Bushmen were above the law. Any Bushman that did such a thing would break the
rules. A Bushman that did such a thing would be instantly killed by his fellows.
And Bushmen are never alone. Bushmen are never alone.
    The site is clear. A clean white streak marks the passing of the great
runner, the Groundsman. Not even the fastest cars can outrun the Groundsman.
Bushmen have trouble catching Groundsmen. And the Groundsman can fight. The
Groundsman can fight well. He who gets on the Groundsman's bad side lasts about
as long as he who breaks the rules. The Bushmen are the only exception. But
Bushmen hide as good as the Groundsman can run. And Bushmen fight in packs.
Large packs. Maybe pack is the wrong word. Swarm would probably be more
accurate. It doesn't matter. You only see a Bushman once. And then you are part
of one of their inevitable masterpieces.

    The tall, lithe form of the Goundsman steps gingerly over the corpse in the
doorway. He wouldn't want to soil his nice white suit. For, like most things,
that would break the rules. This work is too big to be one person. It was at
least two. I sigh in resignation. The entire inside of the house has been
covered. This is going to be a hard one. I hate the Bushmen with a passion.
Bastards, all of them. I want to find one. Just one. That's all I need. I'll
show him what I think of his 'cursed art. Fuck him and his art. I am tired of
all of this. I scream out and go into a cleaning frenzy, a white streak leaving
a trail of cleanliness in my wake.
    Not a trace is left of the Bushmen's handiwork as I streak from the house
towards the next rule-breaking imbecile. I do good work. I do good work. No one
does bad work. No one alive, that is. The Bushmen are thorough. Jails are
pointless. The minute the rule is broken, the Bushmen are there. They are
everywhere, watching everything. And I have to clean up after them. I have to
clean up after them...alone.
    As I arrive on the scene of the next incident, my heart skips a beat. A
bloody figure is dancing through the enourmous mess, howling in what can only be
described as a sort of deranged glee. And then, he abruply stops howling, for
his head has been seperated from his body, which continues dancing for a moment,
having been seperated from it's source of control so quickly that it almost
failed to notice. But the decapitated body comes splashing to the ground,
landing in a puddle of blood. Whoose blood is anyone's guess. I come to a
spinning stop, and sheath my razor thin sword with a flourish, having gone cut
through the unfortunate Bushman's neck so fast as to not even get a drop of
blood on the sword. That's the way it should be done. Neat, clean, and to the
point. The poor bastard probably never saw me coming. His loss. Idiot.
    Applause sounds. Hundreds of Bushmen appear, surrounding me, applauding my
action, as if they had staged the whole thing. As if... And the body I just
decapitated gets up, calmly walks over to the severed head, and replaces it in
it's rightful place. The Bushman then laughs maniacally, to the delight of the
swarm surrounding me. And then they charge.
    A Bushman swarm may be a formidible thing, but then again, so is a
Groundsman. Especially a fully charged, angry Groundsman. I feel the Power
surging in my legs and I am off. 30 of them lose their heads in a simgle second.
Not a drop of blood on the Groundsman. His sword, impossibly thin blade
whistling through the air, blood flying every which way -- clean as the day it
was forged. The Bushmen howl, covered in blood, dancing in agony and glee.
Screaming in victory and defeat. More are killed, more rise up.
    No matter what, I must clean up the mess. I cannot leave until I clean up
the mess. The sword disappears -- and a swath of cleanliness is leaft in the
Groundsman's wake. The Bushmen howl -- and run screaming for cover. He is
destroying their masterpiece! He is...
    Gone. Before the hordes can leave, the Groundman has finished his job. The
grounds are clean. He is called away on another incident. He is still angry. He
wants to kill more of the bastards. But they don't die. They keep on coming...
They aren't human... What the hell are those things? What the hell are those
things? The thought echos through my brain. But I know better than to ask. For
that would be stupid. That would be the most stupid, idiotic thing one could do.
And I'm not one of those idiots. I'm not stupid. I can't be. I'm a Groundsman.
And Groundsmen don't break the rules. It might as well be a rule...
    Back to work. I sigh. More cleaning up. Idiots.

              Bem Ajani Jones-Bey      6.14.99