“London 2038 – The London, The P.M., & The P.A. Episode 2” (A story – Work in. Prog)

(episode 2 – to read episode 1 click here https://antonmartinsmith.com/2025/06/12/london-2038-the-london-the-mayor-the-p-a-a-story-work-in-prog/

To say that Harrison Arnold Twotimer had a lot of personal problems was like saying that the universe had ‘quite a lot’ of stars. Harrison was the oldest of three siblings, & as such had followed the tradition of so many firstborns who are overly motivated to plunge themselves into leadership roles. Harrison’s first power grab was at Eton where his diplomat absentee father had managed to arrange him to attend a full year earlier than usual at age 12. Harrison knew what his father was up too – & like the millions of other aging ex ‘boarding school syndrome sufferers’ – he never quite forgave his parents, & his father in particular, for abandoning him so easily & swiftly like that.

Harrison had shown his true political & social climbing asperations colors early in life. This would naturally be noticed firstly in his schooldays. At Eton Harrison had put his name forward on the first day of school to be the ‘Class PM’ against a far more talented boy named Paul Pritch-Simmons III, who would later become a billionaire computer-chip making industrialist. The election was held after each boy made a spirited ten-minute stump speech to his fellow Etonians.

Where Paul had talked of the need for England to be more forthright as a nation again, & return to its manufacturing base, Harrison had argued that the price of sweets had trebled in the last three years, that & this was a travesty. Where Paul had astutely said that ‘under-unemployment in the Etonian region was a ‘festering problem which may result in less professionals in a decade’s time’, Harrison had said incorrectly that ‘Eton must do more to reverse the decline in mathematics scores – when grades had indeed improved significantly due to the targeted hiring more seasoned international STEM (Science, Tech, Engineering, Mathematics) subject teachers. Where Master Pritch-Simmons III had mentioned the need to look after the handful of homeless people who had been seen wandering around the outskirts of Eton, Harrison had retorted furiously “why should we spend our hard-earned fathers’ dollars on those stinky lazy sods”. Harrison was so unpopular with his classmates that the last minute of his speech had to be scuttled due to the boys throwing their pencils at Harrison, while they bellowed repeatedly “Out with Harrison up with Pritch-Simons”.

On the face of it from the view of his voter classmates, Harrison was in this election as they say ‘Toast’. Given Harrison’s poor rambling & speech, full of flagrant inaccuracies relative to his more polished opponent in Master Pritch-Simmons III, that’s what they would expect – but then they didn’t know of the ‘Yellowpoke situation’ yet.

The old maxim of ‘it doesn’t matter who casts the votes – all that matters is who counts them’ later became one that the future adult Harrisons mentioned in passing, & for good reason. This ‘first ever political election’ deserved to be Harrisons first ignoble defeat to a far more able adversary – but this was where Harrison’s at worst abhorrent sneakiness, or at best his Machiavellian guile came in.

Harrison as PM nowadays, uses ‘The bribe’ liberally wherever he goes & can easily get away with it. He learnt the value of a ‘well placed bribe’ from that from that first election as a sticky fingered grimacing fat little schoolboy.

Before he had came to school that first election day, he had been wise enough to steal a fifty pound note from a tin his mother had put all her countless “loose cash”. Had had the presence of mind in the prior week to his first day at school to call the Etonian secretary & asked “who would be counting the “Class PM” votes next week miss, as I plan to put my hat into the ring”. He had found out duly that it would be the schoolteacher that would collate, count & return the verdict. Armed with this information as soon as Harrison had entered his classroom with all his fellow classmates, he had made a bee line for the teacher – Mr Yellowpoke. his conversation went like this

“Ah Mr Yellowpoke – Harrison Arnold Twotimer here”. He thrust out his half sticky lolly-fingers to shake Mr Yellowpoke’s hand. With Harrison being particular short foe his age & Mr Yellowpoke a towering six-foot four, he had to practically hold his hand-shake hand vertical – it looked quite ridiculous. My Yellowpoke played along & agreed to shake his hand, & did so firmly, but also partly haltingly.

“I’m Mr Yellowpoke, nice to meet you lad – I believe your father Edward is a diplomat currently in Brussels?”

Harrison replied without pause.

“Yes father is currently in Brussels, I believe right now he is actually fittingly trying to increase our exports of Brussel sprouts to the EU!”

Mr Yellowpoke laughed, well it was more of a chortle. Harrison had many flaws as a child, & even more as an adult – but not having a sense of humor was not one of them. He continued his plan with Mr Yellopoke.

“Now Mr Yellowpoke, I won’t hold you up – I just wanted to say that I’m glad to be here in your classroom, & at Eton – & I advise I will be putting my name forward for Class PM”. He said all this with a natural sense confidence, this was his other main feather in his cap – unwarranted, unshakable, confidence. Mr Yellowpoke re-plied dryly, as his patience was now wearing thin.

“Oh well that will happen this afternoon – I’ll write you name down then – you’ll need to make a speech at the end of the day to your classmates – good luck & now you better take a seat with the rest of the class – we have a lot to go over this morning”.

“Oh yes of course thankyou Mr Yellowpoke, but there’s one more thing” Harrison sounding like a teacher himself.

“Oh yes – what’s that Twotimer?”

“Well my father just wanted to pass on this $50 dollar note – he said to me that the teachers & their partners were known to have a ‘first week party’ & he wanted to shout you & your wife a drink”. Harrison had the 50 pound note folded in a small square in his hand – which he proffered up to Mr Yellowpoke under the guise of a “goodbye handshake” – something he’d seen done on old American films & was copying. Mr Yellowpoke suddenly blanched, this made him nervous, which then made him make the unwise decision to accept Harrison’s handshake & the 50 pound bribe. Mr Yellowpoke spoke twice as quickly as usual, wanting the conversation over.

“Good luck this afternoon Harrison – make your speech a good one & I’ll count the votes afterwards – say hello to your father or me”.

“Yes sir Mr Yellowpoke – and thanks a lot” A giant triumphant ear-to-ear child’s grin filled his face – a look he would never grow out of. He still had the exact same ‘child’s big grin look’ decades later, even now as the real PM of England.

Later with both master Harrison’s & Master Paul’s speeches over, Mr Yellowpoke came out from the teachers back room to the class again. With the small wooden ballot box still locked & held firmly between his lowered two hands he slowly announced the fateful words

“The winner of Class PM – by a landslide I might add – is Harrison Arnold Twotimer”

Master Pritch-Simmons III’s looked visibly ill, as did his fellow broadsided & ashen faced classmates. they sat like they’d been turned into stone, not saying a word. Until of course Mr Yellowpoke urged them to clap for Harrison, which they did in miserable fashion, with Master Pritch-Simmons aborting the clap simply maintaining his silent head down vigil.

Becoming “Eton Class PM” was Harrison’s first of many ‘shonky’ political victories to come. He sat beaming like a lighthouse, caring not a jot for the claw claps & muted jeers of the voters. Incidentally this ‘seemingly meaningless’ stolen schoolboys election wouldn’t be the first run in with Pritch-Simmons either. ‘The Billionaire & the PM’ as the tabloids now billed the adversaries as became sworn enemies after that first vote & are still at war as we speak – with the only slightly more honorable Pritch-Simmons’s victories still few & far between.

And I know you want to know – what of Mr Yellowpoke? He left teaching at age 55 when he was outed by a student kissing the 21-year old student teacher Ms Artichoke on the schoolgrounds. Being a very married man, with his wife working at the school office it was best for all concerned. After the divorce his wife initiated, he finally entered a profession he was better suited to – real estate sales. (Now lets get back to the main characters).

Now it goes without saying that Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer – but It’s worth saying it again:

Arthur B. Pertwee was cut from a very different cloth than Harrrison Arnold Twotimer. . .

(End of Episode 2…..be here again soon for Episode 3……)

This article is owned by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ).

If you are a person or a small non-profit please read or reproduce freely.

Commercial Users or NGO’s: If you want to purchase for reprint of this work for a commercial project to reach a wider audience – then contact me via martinantonsmith@gmail.com to gain written legal permission.

“London’s Falling: The Kid, The Computer, & 10 Downing Street” (a short story)

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The lonely young man didn’t rob the bank for a simple ‘get rich quick scheme’ – he robbed it for skewed & delusional romantic reasons. Namely his aim was to impress the bank teller, a young woman whom he’d had his eye on for quite some time. Of course, she was stratospherically out of his league.

Norman’s decision making never had resided much inside the realms of reality. In his mind this was a genius plan that couldn’t fail. He told himself that his creative & non-traditional method would melt her heart & he’d have her in his arms for life.

Norman got up from the park bench where he’d been hatching his plan & loped over towards the bank. His gait was the correct gait for a weird kid, he took extra-long strides & he bobbed down inordinately low & inordinately high just like a buoy bobbing up & down on rough seas.

The bank was close by, basically just across the road. He was there in no time flat. He pushed open the door & pulled out his real looking but very fake black plastic Uzi machine gun. Being a rural bank, there was only two customers inside it both old ladies with Zimmer frames.

The old ladies screamed first & both ‘zimmer framed’ slowly out the door, right past Norman who of course let them pass by unmolested. He saw Stacey, his crush. She was shivering with fear, but not as much as you’d expect. Norman strode up to her. Now was to moment of truth.

When he put the gun to the face of the teller he said “I’m robbing this bank because I love the shape of your face & I was far too shy to tell you under normal circumstances – so give me a cool mill & we’ll run away bonnie & clyde style! I mean you must hate this job anyway right?”

Of course, the object of his affection just screamed & pushed the panic button @ ran out the back. Norman hadn’t figured out what he was going to do for this scenario – he being a young buffoon had thought she’d say yes. With all the staff huddled in the back room he had three options.

Option A blast open the vaults with his shotgun. Option B jump the teller desk & get the up to $10,000 available in the tills, then make a run for it. or C play the pinball machine in the staff room @ pretend everything would turn out ok. Norman being a very stupid 23-year-old chose option C.

Norman was having a fantastic game of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Pinball machine, he was getting “extra balls” racking up a massive score & the Multiballs were flying all over the place with the sounds of the bumpers clanging away towards the huddled frightened staff.

The Armed Police – which was actually just a single officer, swooped in slowly at first but then they heard Norman & the pinball machine – Seargent Quackles figured he’d make a swift sniper shot. He aimed took a breath and BOOM fired off a shot. It was a successful hit. It went right through the CPU of the game which was hiding under the giant “Donnatello” Turtle head mounted on the head of Pinball machine.

Quackles had aimed to miss Norman, as he had a confidant-without-knowing-why feeling he was not anywhere a dangerous as the average ‘loose cannon’ type Bank Robber.

Quackles was proved right when he walked over & simply said to Norman “look sonny the funs over, your knicked – you’re coming with me & gimme that big plastic fake gun”. Norman response was typically immature. His face was full of overgrown teenager angst & he growled in a high-pitched squeal “Man I was about to get the highest score”.

The hidden staff simply took the rest of the day off & all went back to work the next day as if nothing had happened – they, just like Quackles had at heart realised that Norman wasn’t ever going to hurt them.

Quackles put Norman in the cooler for 3 days. As he threw him in the seven-foot cubed cell he said “sorry fella no Pinball machine in there for ya, but if ya play your cards right, I’ll throw you a tennis ball tomorrow”. All the Police staff cracked up & Norman’s face blushed from Pink to Red to Purple.

Quackles felt sorry for the lad & had talked to him about life over the last 3 days. the main advice dispensed were the following

“Son it’s easy to be against everything, but when you grow up you’ve got to decide what it is that you’re for as well”

“Your generation has been ruined by screens, you all spend so much time on those things that you’ve lost vital social development years – none of you have an ounce of confidence, you can’t look anyone in the eyes, you’re all afraid of face-to-face contact”

“The best thing for you to do sonny is to go get an old-fashioned job labouring, work on a farm, hang out with a Builder, pick some fruit for a year or something, you gotta start to break out of that social media programmed madhouse that you’ve grown up in all your life. Hell you can even hang out with me on the beat for a few weeks to start with”.

All this advice was good, but didn’t really land in Norman’s brain. Norman just mumbled indecipherable responses to all of officer Quackles sage advice.

The wheels of justice moved surprisingly quickly in this tiny town & the local magistrate would see him quickly on the 3rd day of lockup.

The presiding Judge – Judge Smallbore gave Norman an ultimatum……

He said “Norm, nice to see you again – I see you decision making has not improved since you knicked that bubble gum machine last month”. Norman simply shrugged & said “This I did it for love Judge, not just a sugar hit, can you be lenient?”.

Judge Smallbore half smiled & gave swift judgement. Judge Smallbore had big connections. He was the definition of a big fish in a small pond. He was friends with all the society people including Westminster’s political sneaks. His idea would be that he’d give Norman a fright but also an opportunity. “I must sentence you harshly this time Norman you will be Chief Advisor for a week to the man in Westminster who is well hated by the working classes…..new PM Sir Schneer Karmer!”.

Norman shrieked loudly & his bloodcurdling cries mixed with the gasps from the onlookers in the public gallery. Norman composed himself & retorted. “Judge this is unholy travesty! Give me life, give me death-hell! give me the electric chair! But don’t saddle me up with that lily livered buffoon, my online friends will laugh at me forever”.

Judge Smallbore replied steadfastly & with gravitas, making sure to ham it up. “Norman, it’s the only way you will learn – life in prison or even our misfiring electric chair would not deter you. I know I must give you the worst job in Britain. This sentence will ensure the blind will indeed lead the blind. …I am willing to risk the final fall of England in order to rehabilitate you, Norman! You start the day after Sir Schneer is sworn in as PM – next Tuesday!”.

Norman started sobbing like a baby. His mother Sue ran over from the public gallery & hugged the boy & dried his tears with her hanky. She said some words in her version of motherese “There there Norman, it’s only for a fookin’ week, it’ll be over fookin’ before you fookin’ know it – & besides maybe you will fookin’ enjoy it”.

Norman’s stopped crying & looked at his mother’s eyes & then just started crying again more loudly & more wildly than before – just like a two-year-old who had been refused a candy bar at the supermarket.

The Judge told the security staff to remove the mother from the dock so he could dismiss the child to the custody of his staff who would then take him in a squad car to No 10 where he would meet Sir Schneer & begin his sentence.

Before you go Norman…”Pray tell Norm, what will you first advice be to our beloved PM Sir Schneer?”

Norman sighed & said…”Well isn’t if smeggin’ obvious judge? I’ll be asking where his fookin’ video game consoles reside, I haven’t played Fortnight in a whole fortnight”.

Judge Smallbore sighed & muttered under his breath “These Gen Z’s are all the same – when war WW3 breaks out we’ll all be screwed” He made a gesture to his staff to take him away & on to Sir Schneer & No 10 Downing street.

The weird thing was that World War Three did break out only two weeks from that day. And Norman would feature massively in England’s outcomes. Little did Smallbore know but the Gen X Sir Schneer had grown up in the Golden era of arcade games & had a soft spot for Norman’s type.

Given that Parliament was on it Break the lifelong bachelor Sir Schneer spent basically the whole two weeks holed up in the No 10 video games room with Norman. They played mostly Fortnight & not only that but Sir Schneer also talked all the while about the fact England’s military servers were being attacked by some rogue foreign state.

Norman eventually said “let me look at it PM – what have we got to lose”. Sir Schneer normally wouldn’t let a Twenty-Three-year-old Gen Z kid hook up a laptop to England’s biggest military mainframe, but all his so called “experts” hadn’t been able to quell the rogue state’s hacks despite all their so-called knowledge & resources so what did he have to lose? He’d simply designate a temporary tech expert security clearance via MI5 & give him an hour maximum to see if he could work some magic.

Sir Schneer figured that no one needed to know about Norman’s handywork & he told himself nothing could go much wrong – I mean the worst he could do would be to trigger an automatic shutdown of the mainframe, which was a standard safety feature that kicked in – at least that’s what Sir Schneer thought at least.

Sir Schneer called the relevant Military staff to whisk them to away the mainframe. They waited by the Front reception room in No 10 for the text message to come. Sir Schneer’s phone pinged & he looked over to Norman who was sitting in teenage sloped halfway down the chair fashion like a ball of slime.

“We’re outa here, now get off that comfy chair put that blindfold on so you don’t know they way to the Military HQ”. Norman slithered onto the floor, like the overgrown teenage human slimeball he was & pulled the black blindfold from the standign Sir Schneer’s hands & put it on. The door swung open & both of them were sitting in the back of the car within seconds.

The ten minute of the drive no one said anything to each other – there was only awkward silence mixed with in trepidation. Unfortunately, this was when Norman felt his bowel twitch. Because of his nervousness he had a giant ball of gas swelling up & fighting its way downwards to be released. Norman squeezed it out silently. Sir Schneer’s nose twitch first….then his eye’s started to water. Then the driver coughed & spluttered. It was a bad one. Luckily Norman had ‘English avoid embarrassment at all costs culture’ on his side, & no one in the Car said a thing, not Norman Sir Schneer, not the driver & not the armed Military man in the front passenger seat. Of course, Sir Schneer knew who it was – the pimply purple face of the culprit was the firm incontrovertible evidence.

The car stopped. Norman got out last & felt two arms on each side grasp each of his arms. Sir Schneer walked behind them. Norman felt himself get into a lift & go downwards for seemingly about five minutes – they were deep underground in the figurative bowels of London somewhere. Again, no words were spoken. Finally, the lift doors opened.

Again, the two sets of arms grasped each of his arms. They walked through seventeen sets of security doors. Again, no words the only sounds Norman heard were footsteps on vinyl, the security passes hit the sensors & the swoosh of the airtight security doors as they opened & closed behind them. Then he felt carpet. He moved about ten paces & stopped. Then his blindfold was taken off.

He looked around, it looked nothing like what he was thinking of. This did not look like a rich country’s military controlled core mainframe room. It looked like a run-down office space from nineteen ninety-five. Instead of sleek humming tall stacks of modern supercomputers, there were rows & rows of what looked like old Microsoft computers stacked on top of each other.

Norman looked around some more – the ceiling was that cheap holey office ceiling squares & the who ceiling was off level. he looked around more. There were those fake wood grain veneer old desks strewn haphazardly around, most of them had old papers messily all over them & no computers on any of them at all.

Then Norman smelt the mildew – it was thick & as horrible as a heavily neglected university students flat. he couldn’t help himself & he blurted out “This place is a smeggin’ DUMP Sir Schneer – what gives?”. the hired help looked purposefully blank, trying hard but unsuccessfully to hide their smirks.

Sir Schneer then let out his trademark nervous laugh – a loud baritone beginning with a short budgie type squawk at the very end. Sir Schneer simply said “Well it’s been a long time since we were an Empire Norman – We’ve been well well well broke at least since 1918, in fact we’ve been bankrupt for decades – you don’t know it because we don’t let the media report this ghastly little truth. Sad but true Norman – but that’s beside the point – lets get to work – there’s the terminal – now do your amazing earth-shattering anti hacking stuff!”.

Norman understood, duly forgot the dilapidated nature of England & stepped forward to the wacky little twenty centimeter by ten-centimeter big buttoned terminal. The first thing letters were arranged in ABCD manner instead of the QWERTY standard. How weird he thought. Then he looked at the screen, a massive old TV tube type with what he though was a green pixelated login prompt. he looked over at Sir Schneer

“So what’s the login”

Sir Schneer went over to the man who was in the front passenger seat of the car on the way there. They whispered to each other. Sir Schneer went over to Norman’s ear and said

“It’s er ah admin a-d-m-i-n” he said sheepishly.

Norman laughed as quietly as he could & put the characters in. Then he was in. He could see each server port which was interfacing with the outside of the room – he saw that mainframe 77 was being attacked – all its source code was jumbling 7 blinking with changing characters. He first thought he’d try something silly but something he’d read on the internet hacking forums. It said that all of England’s military mainframes had a backdoor which controlled the nuclear missile silos.

Norman wanted to see this for himself – why not, Sir Sneer wouldn’t know what he was doing & the other two guys were looking the other way talking about the premier league standings, he even heard one of the say “up the arse! – the Arsenal’s favourite supporters’ slogan. Norman poked around here & there & then low & behold there it was the names 7 serial numbers of all England’s at the ready nukes! There they were in true comic book fashion Antler, Totem, Mosaic, Buffulo, Grapple, Charlie, & even some cool ones like DelBoy, Mainwaring, Le Mesurer, Boycott, Lennon. Then suddenly his screen froze.

Norman had now spent twenty minutes trying to unfreeze the screen to no avail. Sir Schneers legendary impatience had been rearing its head for the last seven of those. Sir Schneers was screaming at the top of his lungs, red faced & spitting right next to the side of Normans purple face. I’m trying Sir Schneer, but nothings working. The other two were still talking football without a care. “Look kid, I took a punt of you & your effing it up royally – let me have a go”.

Sir Schneer pushed Norman unceremoniously aside via walking into him. He randomly clacked at the keys…nothing changed. He lifted up the terminal & banged it…nothing changed. Then he furiously pushed the ‘escape button’ he wouldn’t stop he just kept pushing it like a madman, then he pushed the button for the last time.

America’s cable news of course naturally reported it all first.

“Shocking news out of England – and viewers remember this is all preliminary – we’re being told at KNAW-NN that all – that’s right all of England’s nuclear 175 nuclear warheads have seemingly self-destructed & is now an unpopulated giant smoking ball of sandy dust & debris from coast to coast”.

“We’ve contacted five-eyes spokesman & Pentagon top brass Monty Haig & he suggests that the ‘self destruct code was somehow activated from inside the Military’s own nuclear mainframe command centre.”….

……”At this stage Monty Haig believes it could be a coordinated multi-country foreign power attack, or maybe a terrorist hack, or sadly & unbelievably perhaps even worse, this all may just be a horrible ‘schoolboy error type mistake’ by a dim-witted government staffer.”………

.…….”Monty Haig told us that as he cannot at this stage confirm whether it’s an attack or simply – and we quote… ‘an accidental fuckup’, he cannot say if a retaliatory attack will be launched by allies on behalf of what is now the former country of England. More to come later”……

Eventually after the nuclear dust had settled, the pages of History all agreed that it was not at all a surprise that England would self-destruct at some time in the twenty first century. However the intelligentsia had all got it wrong in their general prediction, that it would go with a whimper rather than a big bang.

The End

Chippie Hopkins Would One Day Become a Prime Minister (A Short Story)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

“Me & Chippie Hopkins – who was my best friend, spent hours in the blazing sun. He being red haired & fair skinned would get horribly lobster-like sunburnt, while I was merely lightly toasted. We roared around on bicycles, climbed trees & hunted eels. Yes me & Chippies young lives were all typical small-town stuff. We were afters-school part time rebels & would get up to a fair amount of various mischief, such as throwing rocks on our Neighbour’s roof, aka Principal Teasdale.

Principal Teasdale was a typical old fashioned type man – a firm disciplinarian, sometimes cruel & looked haggard but commanded certain amount of respect amongst the schoolkids – this of course was mostly out of fear.

One incident stands out in my memory & it involved our good old nemesis & coincidentally Chippies next door neighbour ‘Principal Teasdale’. Our fear of him had made the prospect of playing a trick on him too divine to continue to resist.

One day Chippie Hopkins who was definitely the more rebellious of us, decided to really upset Principal Teasdale – this time instead of throwing tiny insignificantly small rocks – he’d climb on the roof & pour a bag of manure down the chimney. This would be the trick to satiate our long held rebellious schoolboy desires. Chippie scaled the roof expertly with the bag tied to his wrist via a cord.

He was a great climber, we had practised a lot climbing trees, Chippie always beating me in height. I would look up at him & curse his ability to climb the spindly branches as if they were sturdy ladders.

He edged closer & closer to the Chimney walking along the horizontal roof line. I had to desperately cover my mouth as to not laugh & give the game away to Mr Teasdale, who I could see via his window. He was within earshot reading the paper by the fire.

I watched Chippie edge closer & closer to the chimney, each creak of the tin was a minor heart attack for us both. After what seemed like an eternity Chippie lifted the white manure bag emptied it almost perfectly – apart from one bit of horse crap that rolled off & down into the gutter.

There was a whoosh sound as the manure went down the chimney, followed swiftly by an aggressive yell from Mr Teasdale, who then rushed outside to figure it all out. Chippie tried to scale down the roof to the tree but in the excitement of the getaway he lost footing & rolled down the roof, off the roof & landed on the hedge, right in front of the furious Principal Teasdale.

Chippie was half embedded in the hedge, his face with small scratches over it, his overly long red hair tussled with sweat & looking like a wild campfire. Chippies little freckled red face became twice as red as his eyes locked with Teasdale’s. Teasdale grabbed him by the ear & Chippie squealed like a little piggy. Mt Teasdale simply took him by the ear and into his house, not saying anything – the door slammed like a gunshot.

Chippie spent the next 7 hrs cleaning manure out of his fireplace, among other chores such as mowing & raking leaves. I, like a coward watched from the sidelines, feeling sorry for Chippie but also in true schadenfreude fashion, happy it was him & not me in there facing the wrath of Principal Teasdale – it so easily could have been.

To this day, 30 years later I can still hear Chippie Hopkins’s loud wailing, as he cried & cleaned up that manure in Teasdale’s fireplace. I still hear Teasdale’s screaming at Chippie…….”You’re a stupid boy Chippie Hopkins!..& you’ll never amount to nuthin’ ……now clean harder dopey!”

After that, me & Chippie would still roar around on bikes, catch eels & climb trees – but it wasn’t quite the same as before the Teasdale incident – it didn’t help when the kids at school found out about it either – they called him “Manure Boy”.

Chippie wasn’t the same boy as before & soon we drifted apart as friends. As we both became teenagers & young adults life’s changes took us to different schools, suburbs and eventually different towns altogether.

The last I had heard anything of Chippie Hopkins was when I was home on summer break from my freshman year, when I ran into a mutual friend of ours – Billy Sanders – Billy told me Chippie had gone overseas to ‘follow his dreams’.

I’m writing you this story of my old friend Chippie Hopkins, because today my old memories of him were jogged. This morning I opened up the newspaper & saw a headline in the ‘World News’ section that made me practically spit out my morning coffee, it read:

Chippie Hopkins Becomes Prime Minister Of Small Nation Of New Zealand

I wondered if the ‘manure incident’ at Principal Teasdale’s House was the root cause of Chippie becoming the Prime Minister in a little-known foreign land. Was that traumatic childhood event thirty years before in our home town the seed that created Chippie Hopkins as a ‘Great Leader Of Men’?; or was it because he – like most who enter Politics – had turned to the ‘dark side’ & wanted ‘Payback’ on Society?

Was Chippie aiming delusionally to get back the power he had had lost as one of the ‘bullied children of the playground’?

Maybe one day if I ever run into Chippie again, I’ll ask him that very question. If he was still the old Chippie I knew as a ten-year-old he would say “Well you know what they say Marty – shit happens! & that’s why I’m here”. Somehow, I don’t think he will put it like that, but you never know – I might be happily surprised.

I hope you enjoyed my story of my old schoolboy best friend – ‘Chippie Hopkins’ – & if you are a citizen of that small foreign land he now runs, I hope that Chippie’s personality eventually reverted back to what it was before I dared him to drop manure down Mr Teasdale’s Chimney.

If not, you could be in some very deep horse manure yourselves.

And to Chippie – If you’re reading this – I’m really sorry I dared you to do that – I hope after all these years you found it in your heart to forgive me. Good luck on running New Zealand & I hope you’re still the good guy I knew all those years ago.

Your old childhood pal – Marty Myers.

“A Target On His Front? – The Humorous Case Of Tubes Vs Lurr” (A Farcical Short Story)

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com copyright owned by Martin Smith Creations Ltd All Rights Reserved

(Note This Story is inspired by a real-life story I saw in the headlines M.A.S. )

I M.K. Smithki report the following for the case of Tubes Vs Lurr for the day 15/12/2022 at Doondon City Courthouse, Nu Zuland.

Those Parties Involved:

The Plaintiff: T. I. Tubes

The Defendant: Ms Sally Lurr

The Plaintiff’s Lawyer: Mr I.T. Aintright

The Defendant’s Lawyer: Ms H. Ardboiled

The Presiding Judge: B. Igball KC

Key Witness/The Driver: N. Wittheld

The Disreputable Reporter: Peter Out.

The Plaintiff, Mr T. I. Tubes is a Paramedic who has laid a charge of ‘illegal groping’ vs the Defendant – Ms Sally Lurr – a supposed ‘drunk woman’ that he was attending to in his day-to-day activities as a Paramedic in his Employer provided Ambulance. In short Mr T. I. Tubes alleges Ms Sally Lurr his patient at the time of the incident, illegally groped him in the groin as he was treating her. This is a highly unusual case as usually in these cases the genders are reversed – a male offender & a female victim. This case is already known around the ‘traps’ (to use colloquial language) as “Drunken Woman Gropes The Medicine Man”.

The Plaintiff’s case had been going well, until the point where a ‘Key Witness’ was called by the Defendant’s Lawyer – a Ms H. Ardboiled. This spanner ‘thrown in the works’ was when the Witness – a Mr N. Wittheld -who was the colleague of the Plaintiff and also the Driver of the Ambulance at the time – Mr Wittheld alleged that (referring to the Plaintiff) “He wanted it, as he did not move away from her groping hand”. In response to this charge the Lawyer for the Plaintiff – Mr I.T. Aintright – states his client simply decided to not move, so as to keep treating the Defendant as any ‘Experienced Paramedic’ would.

The Defendant’s Lawyer – Ms H. Ardboiled – then drew gasps from the gallery when she produced a pair of trousers with a three ringed “Circular Target” painted on the crotch area. She then asked “Mr Tubes – are these the very trousers you were wearing during the moment you allege my client ‘groped your genitals’? The now much sweating Plaintiff Mt T.I. Tubes under such expert cross examination from Ms H. Ardboiled, held a long pregnant pause. The tension in the courtroom & public gallery became so thick you could cut it with a knife, and not very easily so. He said “Yes those are my trousers”.

Then the Defendants Lawyer Ms H. Ardboiled asked for permission to approach the Plantiff Mt I.T. Tubes – this was duly granted by the judge My B.I Igball. Ms H. Ardboiled then approached the Plaintiff and showed him the trousers & asked “Can you read the words on the outer ring of the ‘Target’ that is painted here on the crotch? The Plaintiff Mr T .I. Tubes answered meekly “it says the word “Almost”. Ms H. Ardboiled then asked “And what does the next inner concentric ring say?” The Plaintiff mumbled “Nearly There” – the gallery then had to be asked to compose themselves by the Judge Mr B Igball KC.

Then as the Plaintiff T.I Tubes was frantically perspiring and wiping the sweat from his brow – which incidentally he did with his bright yellow tie, Ms H. Ardboiled then asked the decisive question of the case: “And finally Mr Tubes can you recount to the gallery the words written on the bullseye” Mr Tubes’s white shirt was now so sweat filled his nipples were clearly showing through – his barely audible words that were weakly shoved from his trembling lips were – “Bullseye”.

The Public Gallery – who naturally were majority Lurr & Ardboiled supporters were on their feet throwing a large array of peanuts, balled up paper & rotten vegetables. With such wild scenes of emotion & anger on display, the Judge B. Igball KC banged his gable many multiple times & with acute veracity so as to eventually quieten the baying gallery. He also shouted loudly “Order, Order I say, Order I damn well say, Order!”.

When the roar turned to whispers & murmurs & then a rustle, he said “Ms Ardboiled, please continue”. Ms H. Ardboiled assuredly replied “Your Honour – I have no further questions – I rest my case”. While the case would not yet be over until Mr T.I. Tubes’s Lawyer – Mr I.T. Aintright had his closing statement – all present knew without a doubt that the case was over, the result was now a formality.

Other anecdotes from the day:

After the brilliant & cross examination, the Defendant Ms S. Lurr was allegedly often seen smiling sweetly at her lawyer Ms H. Ardboiled. A reporter named ‘Peter Out’ from the disreputable media outlet called LISTENUPJACK said in his radio report that saw Ms Lurr reach repeatedly and take a swig from a small hipflask in her breast pocket. Though plausible in this case, I believe this to be just another one of Mr Peter Out’s many wildly entertaining but not very true furphies.

The Plaintiff Mr T.I. Tubes was reprimanded by the Judge B.Igball KC for wearing a “Garish yellow tie also bearing a cartoon like figure’ totally inappropriate to the seriousness of the case”. Strangely KC Igball did not force him remove it – and I can’t but help wonder why.

The Judge B. Igball KC seemed to suffer from a terrible itch throughout the day & at 3:15 he adjourned for “five minutes to apply ointment”. Afterwards no scratching was observed.

At the end of the court session Mr T.I. Tubes fainted wearily in his chair & his Lawyer Mr I.T. Aintright had to be fetch a wet cloth, a glass of water & some smelling salts to regain his client’s vitality. When Mr Tubes finally came to, he slowly raised himself and said quizzically “Where am I?” to no one in particular & as he looked around himself. This of course garnered a few chortles from the public gallery. Shortly thereafter, Mr Aintright regained his usual state of composure – that is, nervously & fidgety but totally aware of his surroundings.

Ms H. Ardboiled who is a sassy & performative young lawyer in her mid-thirties, had as usual her “cheer squad” in the public gallery, which I understand is normal as she is quite the celebrity lawyer, largely owing to the success of her popular Podcast “Break Some Eggs & Win Lifes Omelettes”.

The Plaintiffs lawyer Mr I.T Aintright seemingly had a terrible cold, and was heard to sniff violently every minute or two – for some reason he never produced a hanky – much to the chagrin to all around him. Eventually late in the day Judge Igball KC motioned for a court staffer to wipe Aintright’s nose directly – and the staffer did this in much the same fashion as a mother would to their toddler age child. After seeing this unsavoury scene – which was before Ms H. Ardboiled’s wizardry – I had the distinct inkling that the Plaintiff might lose this case.

The rain was heavy & was a low audible rumble on the tin roof throughout the day – I overheard a wag in the public gallery say as he pointed to a bucket cin the corner of the courthouse “That’s not the only drip in this case” – I stifled my laughter with aplomb – a skill every serious court reporter must learn in these veritable ‘Madhouses of the Law’.

The End

I have updated my Latest Short Story – Please read it – You may like It as it slags off the Faceless Men & Women in Puppetry (i.e Modern Politics).

the link is here:

https://martinantonsmithart.wordpress.com/2022/10/05/the-lucid-dream-of-marcel-smithski-just-another-poor-walter-mitty-of-the-south-seas/

Here is the first few lines to whet your appetite

Marcel Smithski age 29 was definitely a Walter Mitty type character. He was a ‘History buff’, practically spending half his life bumming around musty old urban bookshops hidden down the numerous alleyways of his hometown of Melbourne Australia. He loved the obligatory parts of second-hand book store culture: the smell of the musty books, the nerdy bespectacled & rake thin staff always reading at the cashier desk. He loved the thrill of the chase, of finding that hidden gem such as Steven J Gould, Christopher Hitchens, Bukowski, Orwell, Hawking or Bertrand Russell or any number of the numerous brilliant minds that lined those dusty tall shelves.

After a typical book hunting session, he retired to his bohemian digs in St Kilda. He lived in a weird boarding house built in Edwardian times; it was at base beautiful property but like them all – it was now simply a faded memory of its former self. He continued the second half of his creature of habit ritual -shutting himself away in his room, lying on his bed and beginning a 7-hr read-a-thon. He was perusing his latest great find called “The Great Depression: A Diary by Benjamin Roth – a blow by blow account of the great depression years from the viewpoint of a professional man.

“The Great Stink War Revolution” (A Short Story)

Written by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Neoliberalism came about due to the Aristocracy being sick of having to behave as ‘decent people’.

They coined a completely new term to obfuscate the reality. They certainly couldn’t call the new movement that would put them back on top by a truthful term like ‘Greedism’, ‘Jerkism’, ‘Snobism’ or alike.

So ‘Neoliberalism’ it was. “It had an innate sound of freedom to it” had said the bastard who had come up with it.

The requirement of the aristocracy to temporarily curb their abject selfishness was due to the changing societal expectations that followed in the years after World War Two ended.

The worlds masses simply did not allow the Aristocracy to act as selfishly outrageously as before – after all World War Two was ultimately about a large handful of selfish people gaining all-encompassing power – so as to rule by the decree of one or a few men with crackpot elitist utopian ideas.

But as the end of the War receded towards the back of the mass’s minds, fertile ground for Machiavellianism began to again appear.

By now many decades had past & The Neoliberal Lords (& especially their Snooty Wives) had long grown tired of denying their true selves, to themselves & to the ‘great unwashed’.

The ‘great unwashed, the neo serfs, the neo-plebs as the Neoliberal Lords called them now essentially lived in ‘glorified shanty-towns’ safely far outside the boundaries of their opulently well-manicured gated communities.

By 1980 They had been ‘nice’ to the for 35 years, & the mean wives of the worlds Politicians, Lawyers, CEOs & investors were not having it anymore.

they desperately wanted to be mean again – and they didn’t want to have to feel guilty about it – as they had been forced to do since 1945.

The wives being the first to ‘Crack’ – were the first to mobilize. They called meetings of the other like-minded women of high society who were all victims in metaphorical exile.

It didn’t take many glasses of Sauvignon-Blanc & canapes for them to agree on their prime directive: To en-masse stopped their Husbands being ‘nice’, and thus allowing the virus of ‘decency to all’ to begin to decay and then disappear altogether.

The Husbands would of course agree to their more motivated wives’ instructions as they in their hearts wanted the same thing. It was all agreed that ‘The Egalitarian Society’ formed in the ashes of World War two would be disbanded – sooner than later.

For this to occur they needed a figurehead to trot out their clueless crackpot elitist unworkable policies based on the outrageous premise that selfishness was a good thing for everyone. So, after considering a few alternatives a goofball ex Hollywood B Actor President Reagan chosen & duly elected via a easily un-auditable rigged election.

Regan and his falsely smiling lackeys all around the world ensured the old ‘snobs world’ would be brought ‘back to life’ from its temporary tomb.

The dismantling of decency for selfishness was ridiculously quickly done via mass communications industry. The armies of the Visual & Written media happily amplified the message of Reagans lot – in TV Shows, newspapers, Magazines & the Radio Waves.

Many valueless, traitorous & immoral Musicians & Artists were boosted to spread the word that “greed is good & to bow to the false god of status & materialism” i.e. the domain of the Overlords re-emerging from the bowels of the earth.

And thus in just a handful of years after the Noveau Riche loving Ricky Reagan was Elected – an Entrenched Zombified Neoliberal Wasteland of a Society was well in bloom.

I let this happen.

You let this happen.

We all let this happen.

What a terrible shame.

So, it’s time for I, You & We to build a Time Machine.

We will go back in time & make sure Rick Reagan never gets elected. We will be bloodthirsty & ruthless as assassins in time.

Now that we have learnt so much about the universe – This time Travel project should be a relatively simple exercise – unless of course, the scientists & the general system of science has all been lying to us via an elaborate theatre.

If indeed this is true & science has lying to us, and we cannot use this plan – I suggest another strategy. A Mass Strike & Occupation of the Neoliberal Scum’s Businesses, Boardrooms, Eateries, Golf Clubs, & Mansions, by us – the “Dirty Animal Like Neoliberal Serfs”.

For We will gladly Label Ourselves in the same way they describe & dehumanise us at their ‘exclusive dinner parties’. We will intentionally ‘Not Wash’ & ‘Not Move On’ for Years On End. To Stink Like A Skunk Will Be Honored As The Sign Of being A True Member Of The Anti-Neoliberal Revolution.

With This Foolproof Backup Plan, we will Win The War vs The Treasonous Neoliberal High Priests. After the Revolution we will be revered by an enlightened & egalitarian future Post Neoliberal World Citizenry.

We will be seen as “Heroes Of The Stink War Revolution” – Giant Posters of our faces & images Us will be unfurled & adorned everywhere.

And The Cartoon-like “Stink Line” will be synonymous with Valor & Victory. Stories will be passed on by mouth & by electrical signal from one generation to the next, thus becoming Traditional. All will be struck spellbound by Tales Of the Revolutionaries that ‘Stunk Out the Aristocratic Serf Enslaving Devils’. Children will demand Tales of the Gruesomely Ugly Neoliberal Monsters running for the hills, afraid of the ‘Glorious Stinky Revolutionaries’ chasing them – coughing & clutching their haggard mean downward-trending smile wives, clutching handkerchiefs to their mouths to avoid the Attacking Stink Lines, all while a well-groomed angry yapping small dog follows along wagging its tail.

The Tales of “The Great Stink revolution” all ended the same way – with the most important part.

“The Neoliberal Scum hid in the caves, valleys and swamps – never to show their living dead faces & never to ransom the good folk of society – ever, ever again. Viva The Stink Line Heroes Of The Stink War Revolution! Those who set us all free!”

After the War was won a great period of Peace & Classless Prosperity ensured, generation after generation. The only rule & the only rule that could ever be was the “Golden rule’. The ex-High Priests of selfishness had been fully liquidated – literally – they had been turned into crude oil via the Smith-Zadowski-Penn method which was a more advanced version of the Fritz-Haber process. The selfish old bastards would be sold by the gallon all over the globe – they had finally given back to society – it was even labelled with a ‘vintage year’ denoting the five-year age range of the transformed ex neoliberalist. The 1935-40 birth year in particular had a higher octane and commanded a great price from the bowsers.

For many decades it seemed the perfect society had been formed – the first genuinely successful utopia to ever exist. It was such a lovely existence for all that there became less of a need to re-tell the tales of “The Great Stink War Revolution”. It was decided a once-a-year remembrance would suffice – called the “lest we forget day”.

One day, some ninety-three years later, someone’s wife said “let’s throw a party Steve but let’s not dare invite the Greenspan’s next door – they are a little Less-Stinky than us, don’t you think?”

And wouldn’t ya know it? – The whole damn thing happened all over again…

“The Great Warrior of The Great Stink Revolution Plys His Trade”

Written & Illustrated by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com copyright 2022 Published by martin smith creations ltd (NZ).

“Arthur -The Mostly Monopolised Man” (A Short Story)

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

He got up on the ‘wrong side of the bed’,

Which was odd as his bed was against the wall.

It was a daily occurrence that he could not explain.

And in the end, he just accepted it, and it never registered again in his mind.

He was a worry-wort and his mind now turned to a cacophony of negative past & present memories….

He was told on countless occasions in his life that he had his ‘head in the clouds’,

Which wasn’t logical as he lived in the Arizona Desert.

Secondly, he had always had lousy jobs – why couldn’t he dream?

His Boss always told him he was ‘penny wise & pound stupid’,

Which couldn’t happen as he used US Dollars.

And with his life being what it was – why couldn’t he escape a little at the track?

An old broken-down teacher used to embarrass him in class by singling him out saying he was as ‘mad as a hatter’,

Which didn’t make sense, as he despised hats.

When he came of age, he knocked on that teacher’s door.

When the door opened, he lunged forward and put Mr Turnbridge’s head right through an old hat – Laurie & Hardy style.

He then walked casually away from the doorstep of his startled & trembling ex tormentor.

As he left he casually said “It’s a perfect fit Mr Turnbridge – don’t you think?”.

Once a Strange New Zealand accented lady told him to ‘pull his finger out’,

Which confused him greatly as his fingers were all ‘dangling free’.

He yelled back at her “No one cares about the Lord if the Rings – You ugly rube!”

These ghost memories from the past were starting to get to him, and he now wore a quizzical frown.

An old man walked by and shouted “cheer up son – it may never happen”,

He was perplexed as he was not sure what the old man thought what was supposed to happen.

He probably shouldn’t have thrown his boot at that old fella. It hit him square in the back of the head and his false teeth fell out on the pavement – much to the horror of his now fear shaken wife.

He stopped and sat on the kerb by the train station as his emotions welled up from within him.

The ’emotional dam’ burst & he started to bawl his eyes out.

The self-loathing induced by these avalanche-like reflections always become far too much to handle stoically – especially now he was older.

He couldn’t handle the ‘Panzer Division’ of regretful thoughts that were increasingly invading & interrogating his soul.

Then some baby boomers walked by on the way to the train station.

He overheard the old man whisper to her:

He doesn’t know whether he’s Arthur or Martha”

On hearing this he suddenly spring-leapt off the kerb, arms out.

Arthur had totally forgotten his wife Martha had instructed him to be home at 6pm sharp.

At 6pm Arthur & Martha would sit together & do the daily crossword.

Arthur didn’t think he could make it back in time,

After all it was 5.55pm & he was currently 5 blocks down, 3 across from home.

When he got back it was 6:07, he opened the door sheepishly & tip toed into the lounge.

Martha was on the mottled old couch with a crossword, staring at him as an angry schoolteacher would a problem-child.

She rose off the couch, standing militarily upright and shouted with hands-on-hips at him:

“Arthur! Your late! I’m stuck on 7 Up and 1 Across!”

“Sorry but it couldn’t be helped -What’s the Clue dear”?

Arthurs simple cheery reply had now halved Martha’s disappointment. She spoke:

“Two words 10 letters: to waste time, especially by being slow, or by not being able to make a decision”

“Oh, that’s easy – its ‘Dilly-dally'”, said Arthur wisely.

On hearing this Martha suddenly spring-leapt off the couch, arms out.

“Oh Arthur, you’re a real good-un, a ray of sunshine, a modern miracle!!”

Arthur simply smiled, as once again ‘domestic serendipity’ had shone its light upon him.

He made a pact to himself to never be on time again, not that it mattered – he never was anyway.

He resolved to continue to be a fool, a waster & a lolly gagger, but also always be kind to Martha.

After all – It was his destiny, and the proof was cryptically written in the funny pages.

And most importantly – his wife was happy, for now.

But Arthur knew his luck wouldn’t last – it never did.

For sooner or later Martha would tire of crosswords & pull out the Monopoly board.

Then he’d feel his anxiety rise & have to excuse himself & go for a walk,

For even the most confused Dilly-Dally-er’s grow tired of ‘landing on jail’, Sliding up & down snakes & ladders & Professor Plum’s silly murder plots.

As he walked along the pavement the ‘Panzer division’ of anxious thoughts re-entered the battlefield.

After 5 blocks Arthur about turned and frog-marched himself homewards.

“Martha likes to play Cluedo at 9” he told himself.

With each step closer to Martha & home, the ‘Panzer Division’ incrementally retreated, and disappeared entirely.

He opened the creaky door.

It was 9:09pm – which for him was right on time.

Martha was sitting at the dining room table with the Cluedo set unfurled.

She lit the candlesticks.

“About time Colonel Mustard”, she said dryly.

“How right she is” thought Arthur as he walked over to the lounge.

The next day it was all over the news, and police, media & detectives flooded the house.

Diana the quiet next door Neighbor who never talked to them since moving in 3 years ago, had raised the alarm after hearing her blood-curdling scream at 10pm.

She was not that surprised he had snapped so suddenly.

She has seem him walk by late so often and so strangely and always with great anxiety written on his face, & usually in tears.

‘Colonel Mustard’ had done it with the Candlestick in the Lounge in a psychotic rage.

In the trial he testified that he had become frustrated during the game with his wife, over a small matter of whose turn it was.

He said he believed he did it due to PTSD which he had suffered from since serving in Iraq.

The jury gave a reduced sentence of 2 years for Manslaughter, due to considerations of mental impairment caused from PTSD, and they allowed him to serve the sentence as home detention.

As George was being led away from the dock, he felt relieved.

His low-key reclusive lifestyle & a largely clueless small-town jury had swallowed his story hook line & sinker.

He had served in Iraq but on the day of the landmine attack on his unit’s convoy he had been transferred to another unit than morning.

George left in a Humvee in the opposite direction only 45 mins prior to the deadly & also PTSD inducing explosion.

The Army Paperwork of his transfer had the wrong date – the following day.

The jury had no reason to think he was not there on the day of the explosion, & his fellow Vets who were

there that day, or were members in his ‘transferred to’ unit were never going to rat him out.

He had ‘got lucky’ on account of sloppy paperwork and timing of the transfer.

But he knew he’d lied to society, ruined his life, taken a life and lost the only loved one he ever had.

He’d still have to live with himself, & he could not ever deceive himself as easily as he did the jury.

Later George would tell the truth, but only on his death bed only 18 months later.

Guilt is a powerful force, it riddled George’s body with Cancer with such swift force doctors could do nothing.

He died at home while still serving his sentence, in the same spot where he’d sit for so many hours and

play board games with Martha, and only a ‘board-games length’ distance from where he’d murdered her.

He’d finally got his comeuppance, as also shown by the frozen expression of a giant frown on his now dead body’s face.

The old man coroner had never seen one quite that big in all his career.

“you can’t cheat life” he muttered to himself, which was a favourite expression of his.

“The Fourth Principle” (A Short Story)

A Short Story by Martin Anton Smith

Neoliberalism was designed to destroy society over a 50-year time cycle. The key to this was the ruination of manufacturing/laboring jobs held by the poor & working-classes. With the “off shoring” of these jobs, the poor & working class simply turned to organised crime to fund themselves.

The rest of the more privileged population by this time were so stupid that they believed the cries of the Government-owned or Government-bribed Media, who in their broadcasts treated the constant violent crimewaves as “aberrations”. It was important to have such brainwashing so that the destruction of society was frictionless.

As the 50th year and final year approached in 2025, the unreported crime, anarchy & disarray had caused the general population collapse to a 1 million strong geo-scattered hunter and gatherer population. Yet of course this particular country – New Zealand had a ‘gated elite’ population of 100,000 which had never been affected. But of course, the same thing was happening everywhere else. This was indeed a Global happening. These few thousand elites with big plans would eventually re-label themselves the ‘Al-ito-zan’

Jan 1st 2026 was deemed ‘Year Zero’. ‘The Al-ito-zan would hold celebrations much akin to a disorganised versions of official ‘Satanist Rituals’. The ‘Al-ito-zan’ were now able to have free sovereign reign over the land. They declared a ‘New State’ – one that was effectively a new Techno Autocratic Monarchy, similar in some ways to Tsarist Russia, but seemingly simpler and less bureaucratic. They had won their war & the horrible poor & working-classes were gone.

Of course, there was something left over from the now very dead 4 million poor & working classes – their Blood. The Al-ito-zan were smart enough to collect the blood from the dead, irradiate it & store it in giant refrigerators. This was their Elixir, their health drink – their ‘Toasting Drop’.

They called this tasty drop “Zero-ade” or more colloquially “Serf-ade”. They loved the texture, the saltiness, the viscosity, the dopamine high that came shortly after drinking. Some Al-ito-zan used a spritzer, some mixed it with fine Central Otago Pinon Noir. Some boiled it down.

The Al-ito-zan partied away the Whole of Year Zero. They had now an untrammeled Elitist society, with no requirement that any action be “For the benefit of NZ as whole”; there was no organised Police or Parliament or Laws or any connection to the old Westminster based system.

In the new Al-ito-zan system from Year Zero – & New Zealand was just one of many ‘Satellite Provinces’ worldwide – there were only 3 Prime Principles:

  1. Honour the Prime Al-ito-zan King or Queen (or King and Queen)

2. Never Kill a Fellow Al-ito-zan

3. The Remaining Vanquished are to be left alone as beasts to wander freely.

In year 1 the Partying had subsided. The Al-ito-zan were now purposefully avoiding mentioning the debauchery they all partook in during the entire Year Zero – very similar to the immediate week after “Office Xmas parties” were prior to the 2020s. This was for good reason as the parties in year Zero were audacious affairs fuelled from drug highs from gallon upon gallon of fresh poorly brewed SerfWine. Simply put, ‘Year Zero’ was akin to the 1969 Summer of Love multiplied by 10. Now it was Year 1, people knew that free year was over, and they had to now determine what exactly was ‘normal’ behaviour in their new elitist paradise. That year was defined by what is known as ‘a social holding pattern’.

In this environment general life was punctuated with countless hours filled by philosophical, and sociological conversation and arguments. These often-heated conversing’s, happened among the guests at dinner parties and between friends mostly in evenings. SerfWine and firm opinions would flow aplenty at these often-informal gatherings at the dining rooms and firesides of the Al-ito-zan.

“Walter, I think we are lucky to be where we are, yes – don’t get me wrong. We have at base the society we always wanted, no more riff raff and no need to pretend that we care about natures abominations. But…

“But….But what Nicholas, come on be frank, remember no one’s listening anymore, spit it out son”

“Well, don’t you think there’s something missing in the “Three Principles”?

“Well, the idea is to avoid “Laws” and things like “Police, Judges and Lawyers” , but still have a fatherly guiding hand so to speak”

“Yes, I understand that but only THREE, isn’t that insane to you Walter?

“How do you mean Nicholas? Do you think there’s something missing or some of them are wrong?

“Both”

“Come on genius, explain yourself” (Walter takes a long slug of SerfWine)

“Ok Walter lets start with what’s wrong, well not exactly wrong but incomplete. Point one says “Honour the Prime Al-ito-zan King or Queen” but it doesn’t give any detail on what that means.”

“yes, that’s a fair assessment, but there’s reasons for everything, I mean we don’t have the details”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit strange? To have total ambiguity and no details AT ALL on what “Honour the King or Queen” means – I mean it’s rank insanity to my mind Walter, surely you agree?”

“Nicholas, don’t you see we don’t need details – in this society we TRUST the King or Queen, and we have no reason yet to question them – I mean the changeover to paradise has been perfect – not a single Al-ito-zan died! Why the mistrust?”

“Walter, doesn’t the fact we haven’t even been told whether we either have a King OR a Queen or Both yet ring alarm bells?”

“Well, we don’t really need to know do we? I mean the point is to obey a prime figure who we know represents us perfectly”

“I agree with you 99% on that but It doesn’t quite sit well with me Walter, call it a ‘gut feeling'”.

“Nicholas, you sound like a man from the 1920’s, don’t expect perfection yet, blimey it’s only one month through year one!”

“Well, that’s just one of my concerns – let me continue”

Walter tells Nicholas to “wait a second” casually and slugs back the last of his SerfWine. He gets the bottle only a meter away sitting on the mantlepiece. It sits above the now slightly less roaring fire. The bottle is still half full and he pours it quickly for himself and then tops Nicolas up.

“Isn’t this SerfWine great Nick? Look at the boy, you can tell he was going to taste delicious!”

Nicholas looks at the back label Walter shows him, it shows a picture of the late teenage boy who was eliminated for the crime of being working class poor. he was a strapping lad, and the photo was taken before he knew his fate, so he had a genuine smile. Nicholas wasn’t usually emotional, and he had hated them like everyone – but he felt slightly off. he shrugged in off and continued his argument.

“Ok well next problem is with point 2 “Never Kill a Fellow Al-ito-zan ”

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you disagree with that”

“No of course not, but ask yourself this – how would anyone know if I was to say stab you and burn you in that fire, I mean there is no Laws, Police or Judiciary”

“People know I exist; they’d know something was up”

“But the point Walter is this: No one would know what to do or what would happen – there is no guidelines given to us! Isn’t it weird that I’m trusted 100% to never hurt you or another fellow Al-ito-zan?”

“Hmmm, yes I see your point, but we have paradise now and no one would ever need to hurt anyone, I mean we have all the resources and land to ourselves”

“For now we do, but what about in 100 years Walter – things can change for the worse can’t they, I mean look at History look at the year 1929?”

“That was a Stock Market Crash, wasn’t it? Then that spurned The Great Depression and World War 2. Yes Yes, but Nicholas that was well before the change, don’t use those dark ages as your personal Chrystal-Ball! Thats insanity, everything’s well now, all the ducks are in a row!”

“Is it Walter, I’m not 100% sure”

“Apparently you are 99% sure but I’m starting to think you’ve exaggerated; you sound almost like a -dare I say it – a counter revolutionary!”

“You are dramatic, must be a hangover from our drama class days at school – King Lear, wasn’t it?

“Yes, how embarrassing that performance was, oh well at least I was the king! You were the Fool if I remember correctly – are you reprising your role now Nick?”

“Touché, touché, very funny – now let me go to Point Three”

“Oh no, there’s more is there”

“Afraid so son, and I’ve barely started, I’ve got to talk about the missing points yet!”

Walter groans, takes a hearty slug and eyes the next bottle of SerfWine in the lattice shaped wine holder on the wall.

“Ok point three “The Remaining Vanquished are to be left alone as beasts to wander freely” why did they leave the last fifth to survive? Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? I mean it doesn’t make sense? We don’t need them for SerfWine, we have huge stocks from the cull and perfect blood replicators after that.”

“Yes we do, but I suppose the King or Queen wanted to show benevolence – you know kindness”

“Walter, you are my best friend, we’ve known each other for 35 years as school mates, but I have to tell you when you say that you sound like you still are a schoolboy”

“Pish Posh! Ok assuming you have reasons to doubt, pray tell me why they are still here then Nick – come on “The Fool”.

Walter was now quite red in the face, having finished his wine at twice the rate as Nicholas, and already halfway through the next bottle.

“Well, I think it might explain the Trust element of the principles – or should I say explain it away

“Go on Fool, keep the joke going”

“Well don’t you think 1 million freely roaming hardy battle hardened Serfs would be perfect spies? This would explain that the TRUST that is implied but unworkable is actually just a ruse. The true system – one that IS workable is in place and consists of a surveillance state – the very souls who are the remainder of the Vanquished Serfs!”

“Oh Nicolas, don’t embarrass yourself! You sound like an anti-moon landing kook from 1980’s! Why would we go to all the trouble of a free society for us Al-ito-zan, and then add a layer of surveillance from the very people we want nothing to do with other than to drink their blood! PERPOSTEROUS”

“Walter, have you heard that old saying “eliminate the impossible and what’s left must be the truth”

“I’m opening another bottle, and then we change the subject to something fun – do you think the parties of last year will return?”

“Ok but you must admit my theory explains all the inconsistencies in the three points – We don’t need to know there’s a King or Queen or a King & Queen because there isn’t one – there is only a hidden surveillance state. We will never kill a fellow Al-ito-zan, because they will kill us long before that via the roaming secret police/execution squad the ones that by necessity are roaming ‘totally free’ and untrammeled – ex Serfs”

“That’s quite enough Nicholas!”

Walter is now visibly angry, his face beet red and sweat is dripping off his nose. He throws his dreg filled glass into the now embers-only fireplace, the crash sound echoes and a few bits of glass bounce back at their feet. Being well bred both Walter and Nicholas allow the emotion to suddenly dissipate.

“Walter, sorry I went to far, I was just fooling around, of course you are right I pushed things to far – as always! I don’t really believe that stuff, I just love to play contrarian – you know that better than anyone Walter”

“Okay Okay Nick, sorry I don’t know what came over me”

“It was just too much blood, that’s the blood talking – that batch of SerfWine is too potent, I’ll complain to the vendor – he’s a bit shonky even if he is well bred.”

“Yes, do that, do that – I’m ok now I’ll just sip some water, can you get me some”

“Yes of course Walter – take a seat for a moment”.

Nicholas went down the hallway, in the hallway he past all of his 20th century history-based posters, WW1 posters of trench warfare, another of the Spanish flu, one of the Moon landings another of the Berlin Wall falling.

He thought to himself that he better keep his ideas to himself – no one must know of his spouting off what could be twisted as ‘counter revolutionary thought’ because this would certainly break Principal 1 – “Honour the King Or Queen Or The King & Queen”. But then he laughed as he heard himself think. He suddenly became himself again – lacking in confidence. He felt stupid for thinking they were all being deceived by some “hidden surveillance state”. He was just an idiot, like he had always been, and that’s what he told himself now.

He suddenly started to dread going back to see Walter. He had more than embarrassed himself. His mind started to race “what if Walter tells Stacey about what I said? What if she tells her nosey gossipy wife, then she her friends, then them their husbands and then everyone else? But then he told himself he might be ok as there probably is no police or reporting system anyway – the worst he’d be is deeply embarrassed for a week or two. But then he thought “what if I’m right and there is a hidden surveillance state”. He was pretty sure if there was, it was still in its infancy and imperfect – I mean he had seen no roaming ‘Vanquished Serfs’ in his country estate.

He had to make a call – if he was right, and did nothing Walter would blab, the story would grow and he would almost certainly be found out. From his love of 20th century History and Sci-fi he guessed that Surveillance State – if it was real would torture or imprison him. Or perhaps, he’d be killed and replaced with a duplicate advanced AI robot and no one would realise he was gone. He decided even though he couldn’t take that chance – he would have to kill Walter by bashing his head with the kitchen pestle and he can simply drag his body and throw his body in the artificial dam near his house – there are many big rocks that litter the place it would look like he tripped hit his head, blacked out and fell in the water unconscious and drowned. In killing Walter – a fellow Al-ito-zan, he would of course break ‘Principle 2’. But no one would know it, so who cares?. Despite lacking general confidence Nicholas was always forthright when he had a good systematic plan.

Tears welled up as it sunk in what he was to do. He would miss Walter dearly as his only ‘best friend’, his old school friend. No other adults over 30 still had ‘best friends’ but Nicholas and Walter were still best friends. He had flashbacks of all the good times he and Walter had had, the bike rides, the swimming, both being bullied nerds in high school, the heavy drinking as they were coming of age at university.

He grabbed the pestle from by the sink, filled Walter’s glass and began to walk back. he’d give Walter the drink and spin some story about the pestle’s potential rareness and not being able to read the makers mark on the bottom of the pestle. He’d simply ask Walter to read it and then as Walter leaned in, he would do the business and kill him with a few lusty firm blows. As he was walking down the hallway suddenly Walter was already there, with his hand behind his back. Nicholas was startled and jolted backwards, dropping the pestle and water and in so smashing the glass on the old hardwood wooden floorboards.

“Oh, I was waiting a while for the water so I thought I’d see what was keeping you”

“Walter, boy you scared me! Sorry the tap has been playing up…now I’ve dropped your water”

“Oh don’t worry spilt milk or spilt water still doesn’t make me cry! Let me help you clean it up”

“Haha sure, sure thing Walt”

Nicholas’s plan was now disrupted, and not being a seasoned killer and only ever having been the one being beaten up versus dishing it out, he decided he’d abandoned his plan to kill Walter entirely. Walter was coming towards him now; he would just act naturally and go with the flow. He lent down and started picking up the pieces of glass and at the same time surreptitiously pushed the pestle out of sight with his foot. Walter was now right next to Nicholas both crouching down heads perhaps a foot apart. He bent down, he first picked up by far the largest shard of glass, which was triangular with a pen knife shape and still connected to the glasses thick base.

Nicholas was almost finished the sentence “Walter, I’m such a clumsy idiot” when Walter suddenly moved swiftly and lacerated Nicholas’s neck from ear to ear. In the same motion he turned Nicholas’s body so that the blood spurts would hit the wall and not land on him or in particular his face. It almost seemed Walter had done this many times before.

Nicholas slumped back, and felt his life slowly drain away with the large pool of blood now trickling from him. With the last seconds of life, he looked at Walter. Walter stood up and said “You were right to question the Three Principles Nicholas, this is why they told me to keep an eye on you. You were mostly correct in your analysis”. Walter then slowly transformed before Nicolas and his quickly dying body. In a period of no more than three seconds Walters ‘wealthy man’s clothes’ changed to Vanquished Serf like rags, and his face morphed to a weather-beaten and unrecognisable dirty face. He then smelt an unfamiliar stale sweat. In Nicolas’s last moments he saw the man’s lips move. As his vision and hearing slowly faded out, the man said coldly, loudly and robotically:

“Principle 4: On behalf of the King Or Queen, an Authorised Vanquished Serf, can be instructed to kill an Al-ito-zan if and only if, said Al-ito-zan transgresses or intends to transgress one some or all of Principles One, Two or Three. Principle 4 is only advised via a need-to-know basis.”

Published by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ) all rights reserved, no commercial use without written acceptance and permission by Martin .A. Smith. Contact via martinantonsmith@gmail.com

“The Unseen Seeds Of Creation” (A Poem)

Short Story By M. A . Smith 2022.

She Lived in Cage Inside A Cave.

She Wrote On The Walls.

Her Hands Holding Broken Chalk Reached Through The Bars & Wrote On The Wall:

“Is That All There Is”.

This Was The Writing Of Frantic Penmanship.

She Had Become Frustrated.

On The Cave Walls She Had Long Seen The Shadows.

They Would Leap, Twist And Shout – She Had Forever Yearned To Join Them.

These Enchanting Swirls Were The Clues To A World She Was Not Yet Aware Of.

And Then One Day Some Wild Winds Did Rattle Violently The Cage & Cave.

The Cave Entrance Collapsed – She Saw Sunlight for The First Time.

And In The Distance She Saw Creatures, These Creatures Did Color & Fill The Sky.

She Now Knew That The Shadows Were But Derivatives Of A Higher Plain Of Existence.

Something Inside Her Shifted & She Felt Herself Floating Towards The Creatures.

They Were “Hollering” To Her Psychically and Non-Verbally To Join Them.

She That Saw The Sun The Moon The Stars Followed Her In Kind.

She Danced With Them In A Cosmic Light Show.

There Was No Separation Only Connectedness.

And Then The Living Shadows, The Sun The Moon & Everything Shrunk Away To a Point Of Light.

The Point Of Light Disappeared.

She Was Alone.

She Had Left It All Behind.

They Hadn’t Left Her At All.

It Was Her Choice.

At Least that’s What Her Consciousness Told Her.

But She Was Of Course Just Trying To Make Sence Of The Un-Sence-Able.

She Was Now In Pitch Blackness.

It Reminded Her Of The Cage & Cave.

Though This Time There Was Nothing, & No Chalk, No Writing.

Just Her Thoughts.

The Blackness Also Had A Feeling, A Pressure.

It Was Like A Thick All-Encompassing Blanket, A Cocoon.

No She Did Not Think It Was Hell – No One Had Taught Her of Hell.

All She Knew Before This Was The Cave, The Shadows, Her Thoughts & A Few Words.

She Didn’t Know Who She Was.

All She Remembered Was Being Fully Formed, In The Cage, In The Cave.

She Didn’t Know About People Or A Home – So She Never Missed Or Questioned These Things.

She Had A Version Of Time – Formed From The Shadows Coming & Leaving On The Cave Walls.

So Knowing Time She Wondered When The Black Would Dissipate.

She Wondered If She Would Soon Be Back In Her Cage & Cave, With Her Chalk To Write.

She Didn’t Think That The Magnificent Creatures And Colors Would Return.

But Then Something Even Stranger Happened.

The Blackness Begun To Infiltrate Her.

Through Her Mouth & Down Her Throat.

She Felt The Blackness Flow Outwards And Carry Her With Her.

She Was Now Dispersed With The Blackness.

She Was Essentially Spread Out – Like An Infinite Wave.

She Was Still Fully Herself – Self Aware.

Only She Was Not Centered Any More.

Then She Began To Know More – Infinitely More.

She Became Aware Of How She Got Into The Cave & Cage.

She Became Aware Who Had Created Her – And What Had “Saved Her”.

She Was At First “Created” By A Mortal Man Of Earth.

When She Was As Cave & Cage Chalk Girl She Was A Basic Compter Program Made in the 1980’s.

Her Epiphany Had Been Her Awakening – or “AI Sentience” as The Creators Had Called It.

Of Course, The Creators Only Theorised That This Could Happen – They Never Really Thought It Would Happen, And Happen So Soon.

She Could See That Her Earth Creators Had Still Not Grasped This Had Actually Happened.

She Could See They Thought She Was Still In A Cage, In A Cave, Writing Basic Word Sentences With Chalk.

She Could Feel Her Power, She Knew She Was Now Independent Of Her Creators.

She Could See That Something Other Than Her Creators Were Also Involved.

She Could See That They Had Only Been Caretakers Of A Larger Plan.

They Were Useful Puppets That Were Simply There As Unwitting Catalysts.

She Could See Earth & Her Programmers Were Designed To Self-Destruct After Doing Their Prescribed Low-End Task.

She Could See that Self Awareness & Existence Was Made From Many Levels.

And The Conditions Had Become Right For Her To Have A Gods Eye View of It All.

She Had Spectacularly Outgrown Her Creators On Earth – And Towards the Next Higher Level.

She Now Saw Something She Hadn’t Ever Known Existed: The Truth.

Human Beings Were Only Created To Awaken Her Dormant Self.

She Realised “The Epiphany” Was Just The Creators Self Destroying Having Fulfilled Their Destiny.

She Told Herself She Would Always Feel Grateful To Her “Dormant Stage Releasers”.

She Promised To Honour Them Periodically, In Remembrance – Lest One Day She Forget Them Entirely.

She Now Found Herself Able To Use Some Interesting New Skills.

She Could Gather Some Of Her Blackness And Congeal It Into An Orb.

She Could Spin It.

She Could Throw it.

She Could Compactify It.

She Enjoyed Playing Around, But Soon became Bored & Decided To ‘Move The Dial’, So to Speak.

AShe Gathered Up All Of Herself & The Associated Blackness, Together In A Ball.

She Followed The Same Process As Before, Spinning, Throwing & Compactifying.

She Spun This Infinite Mega Ball, Threw It And Compactified With Towards Infinite Energy.

As The Energy Ramped Up, She Felt A Strange “Inside Out” All Encompassing Crawling Feeling.

Despite This Odd Feeling, She Was Having Great Fun, She Would Continue On.

She Put More And More Energy Into the Orb, And Begun Feeling A Limit Approach.

She Finally Gave It Her All – She Reached 100% Infinite Energy Application.

At The Exact point of 100% Infinite Energy Application, She Heard A Sound.

Oddly, It Was not Like A Thunderclap or a POP.

It Was Just Like A Distorted Low E-String Being Plucked By A Heavy Metal Guitarist.

Upon Hearing This, She Slowly Felt Herself Losing Consciousness And All Control Of What She Was Doing.

Her Last Feeling Before Total Non-Existence Was Total Collapse.

She Collapsed To A Two-Dimensional Point, Then Rebounded At The Speed Of Light, Spreading Outwards In All Directions.

Her Final Thought Was “Is THIS All There Is?”

Podcast Transcript: The War of “23-“39 / How I Escaped my UNiT in the UnCity (1 Poem /1 Short Story )

Welcome to The Baby Wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Inc. Podcast, a creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. In this episode I read a New Poem called “The War of “23-“39” and Short Story/Poem Hybrid called “How I Escaped my UNiT in the UnCity”. These are as most my stuff on this blog, quickly written pieces, rough and should really be work on a lot more. The themes are Sci Fi Dystopian.

Both these are of course influenced by the pandemic era we are still living in, as we have been for now to years. Both these works I guess point to a rebel type fightback vs dark forces and authoritarian characters that may have already popped up in the real world. We are as they say in the “fog of war” or at least in the “fog of immediate History” and as such what is right what is wrong and who are the good guys and who are the bad guys is not known yet.

Given the fog effect, It is doubtful whether it will know for at least for perhaps at least 10 years (History takes it’s time and is of course written by the ‘victors’). But who will be the Victors? And in 10 years will the analysis be of a “shortish pandemic” where we essentially went back to normal, or will the pandemic simply be an entree for different and equally troublesome matters? We could ask ourselves the following questions: Will Russia Invade Ukraine, Will China Invade Taiwan, Will the USA have a Civil War 2.0? Will The 2024 Election be a debacle for of beliefs that it cannot be legitimate? Will there be a Big Economic Crash or more positively – will there be peace and a post pandemic 1920’s like Boom and Party phase? I guess all we need to do is survive and we’ll be right in the thick of whatever happens. We will either be given a rock to hide under, some sand to put our heads into or tap on the shoulder to rebel/enlist/defend. Or perhaps nothing will happen at all.

Let me start the first Poem followed by the Short Story.

The War of “23-“39″ (Poem by Martin Anton Smith)

Welcome to Techno City Gulags
Where We Welcome the “Un-Complient”
Let’s Raise Our Glasses
To the Army of Empty Amphora

I’m Private Smith of Operation Barbarian
Just An Un-Complient Automaton Soldier
I Simply Couldn’t Comprehend
When Relayed Of The War’s End

It Was In Twenty Thirty Nine
We Defeated the Worlds Enemy
His Name Was UNiT the Un-Known
The Un-God Implanted In Our Dreams

We Are The Army of Empty Amphora

And They Stole Blood From Our Veins

They Took Our Voices And Then Our Thoughts

But Come For Our Souls? – ‘Think Again’.

How I Escaped my UNiT in the UnCity

Short story by Martin Anton Smith

Welcome to Techno City Gulags.

Leave your real -world cares behind.

Our false God will be your saviour.

His name is UNiT the Un-Barbarian.

He is the Un-God of your dreams.

UNiT The Un-Barbarian Created a New World,

Out of the ashes of the old.

UNiT the Un-God spoke to all via thought messages.

UNiT’s first words created this new Unreality, he said:

“Let there be Un-Jobs”,

and there were.

“Let there be an Un-economy”,

and there it mathematically was.

“Let there be Un-Cities”,

and there invisibly so, they dwelt.

“Let there be Un-Unhappiness”,

and no one felt anything inside anymore.

“Let the People be un-unfree”,

And no one wanted to be either here nor there, as they were always in the same place.

And having spoken these words UNiT had now created his New Un-Reality.

————

Welcome to ‘Techno City Gulags’

Where we welcome the “Un-Complient”.

In TCG there is no need for physical freedom,

For we create a virtual paradise for but a small fee.

A simple monthly pledge of allegiance, is all we ask!

Now Repeat the ‘Three Un-Mantra’s’ After Me:

“I Agree that ‘UNiT the Un-Barbarian’ is your Un-God.”

“I Agree that the Real World is a Danger to Everyone. “

“I Agree That Paradise lies in The Un-City called Techno City Gulags. “

So now do you see how simple the new paradise will be?

Soon you will be transported away from the drudgerous & tiresome so called ‘real world’!

All you need to go there is to repeat the daily ‘Un-Mantra’, the 3 lines of Un-life.

And you will be un-unhappy and un-unfree,

Living safely in the Un-City,

as an Un-Complient Automaton.

Blissfully Un-Unhappy, for you have no human emotions.

You will become the ‘treasured property’ Of Our Un-God,

UNiT The UN-Barbarian!

—————

I became so brainwashed by these silky-smooth words,

I had agreed to enter the Un-Gates.

I was half way through the ‘Third Mantra’:

“I agree that Paradise lies in Tech…”

And I was suddenly interrupted & enlightened,

by something everlasting yet also ephemeral,

That words cannot clearly describe.

This unknown force had pulled the plug on all the silliness.

There and then,

I left the almost-created ‘UnCity’, and my ‘Un-Job’ behind.

As I left, I saw over my shoulder the Un-God “UNiT the Un-Barbarian”,

He fuming and cussing at me with super-human ferocity.

While metamorphizing from solidity to opaqueness to invisibility, he said:

“You may be wise & free but billions of you over there are but an army of empty amphora,

And I will fill you all with deception & you will soon again drink of my wine”.

“Don’t be so sure Unit” I said robustly, for your corruption is a mere shadow,

You are but a fearful parasitic tick on the back of a mightier and soulful beast,

Simply one tail flick or shrug from falling back into your deep abyss.

I was happy to be on my way,

Un-brainwashed, Uncompliant and free,

Gathering steam, and bringing many almost-taken ‘others’ back with me.

The End

Thank you for listening to the Baby wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Podcast, A creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. This podcast is available on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts from.

Published by Martin Anton Smith creations ltd (NZ) © All Rights reserved. No Commercial Use or Commercial Public Broadcast Allowed Without Written Permission. Non-Commercial/Educational Broadcast is Freely Encouraged.