(Dániel Darabos, June 2023.)
My brother Zsolt is better with electronic devices. He uses the Internet a lot. He shares videos about environmental issues all the time. Me and my stubby fingers have a hard time setting up this laser interference device in the dark. The guards will be circling the estate again in twenty minutes, and I’m still working on blinding the cameras. There! I finally got it.
I run to the gate. I have Zsolt to thank for getting me running as well. He runs everywhere. He doesn’t use a car, or even a bus or train. If something is too far for him to run, he just doesn’t go there. He does so little harm to the environment.
I’m casting a grappling hook now and climbing up the wall. I’m too old for this. Zsolt would do better. But his goal is raising awareness. They sell a poison that kills the planet. And Zsolt raises our awareness to try to buy less of it.
I’m one to talk, with ten liters of gasoline on my back. But gasoline is a fantastic poison. It has six times the energy of the same amount of dynamite. From the top of the wall I can see the whole estate and catch a glimpse of the house. I can’t linger here. My silhouette is easy to spot against the city lights.
I plan my route from the wall to the house and start descending. I have to avoid the road lined with solar lights. I run almost blindly through the trees in the garden. It is no longer the goal that drives me, but panic. If they see me here, I’m done. Prison. Why do I deserve prison and they don’t? We encourage each other to buy less of the poison that is killing the planet. Why can’t it just be banned?
Our mother did everything she could. He worked in the ministry. But who could be trusted to regulate the energy industry, if not to those who have worked in the energy industry themselves? An outsider would just stumble blindly. Like me! A protruding root snags me and I hit the ground hard.
For a moment I see stars and wonder how loud my fall was. I lie flat in the grass. Silence. The house is close now, on the other side of the driveway. Two unknown Porsches are parked in front of me. Guests? Are they spending the night here? Who can they be?
Research is important. We cannot rush blindly into the future. My brother Márk is not satisfied with doing little harm. He wants to help and works as a researcher. The latest climate models are more accurate than ever. Today, we can rush to our deaths with perfect vision.
I sneak between the guests’ Porsches. Whoever is friends with the CEO deserves it. Reaching the wall of the house, I lean against the cool bricks. I’m invisible in the embrace of these black shadows. The architect hid the outdoor condenser unit of the air conditioning system in this darkness. I take off my backpack and get to work.
Márk knows aerosol systems well. He wrote his dissertation on whether we can save the planet by spraying aerosols into the stratosphere to dim the sunlight. We can’t. His roommate barely passed atmospheric dynamics class. His stratospheric aerosol company has just received an innovation award. An award to whoever says everything will be fine. An award to whoever says we’re not killing the planet after all.
My carburetor purrs in my backpack, aerosolizing gasoline. I’ve attached its outlet to the air intake of the condenser unit. I sit back against the wall for a few minutes. Everything is alright. Gasoline vapor accumulates in the air of the house. I can’t sit here any longer. I must step out into the light.
My radio-controlled spark igniter is held together by duct tape. The only opening into the house is the letterbox of the well-lit front door. I slip the igniter in. I run towards the gate. I take out the remote control.
What will Zsolt and Márk think when they read the news tomorrow? That violence can turn public opinion against our cause? They don’t understand that my target audience is not those who sort their garbage for recycling. My target audience is the next CEO of the oil company. Click. Boom.