“The Plight Of The Empty Beer Can” (A Poem)

By Martin Anton Smith

The beer can sat in the slobs room,

Having been the last one discarded.

He sat among all his older peers.

He was thrown out unceremoniously,

After 7 minutes service To humanity.

Flung parabolically into the corner,

Aimed at an overflowing,

But probably never to Be emptied bin.

Hitting its fullness & so bouncing to the floor

On top of the carcases of earlier used up cans.

A veritable mountain.

“Mount Aluminium”

or

“Mount Aloominium”

If you are American.

Now dear reader or listener:

Let’s put ourselves directly amongst the beer cans social milieu,

In ‘fly-On-the-wall’, or gonzo reportage fashion.

On Mount Aluminium,

There was always A collective sigh,

A psychic energy forever floating around.

A dispiritedness, if you will.

While beer-can-to-beer-can communication,

Is usually telepathic,

In words it can be translated

From Can-ton-ese,

To English

As the following labelled thought forms:

“Why can’t he take us out”

“We could become Something better”

“We could make something of ourselves”

“Some of us could end up as ladders”

“Some of us tennis racquets”

“Some of us surgical equipment”

“Some of us ‘love devices’ “

“Some of us could literally go to Mars,

As part of a space ship”

And I as a keen observer of the universe,

Summarise the discarded beer can’s struggle for life thusly:

You see, at heart all these beer cans,

All dream the nearly impossible dream:

To go from

A fat mans lips – to Mars bound space ships.

And as a firsthand witness I can say hand on heart:

Unfortunately, even today in our modern computerised world,

Life for the average upwardly striving, crumpled & discarded beer can,

Is still crushingly empty, downwardly mobile & very very….

Bitter

“A Boost From The Future – A Time Travel Tale” (A Short Story)

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Tom Lister Is the Captain & Owner Of The 23rd Century Starship “Betelgeuse Mk 7”. He & His Crew Are On Their Latest Mission, Which In This Case Is Planet Earth, In The Distant Past. Tom Is Making His Initial In-Situ Report After Being Beamed Down To Earth From The Orbiting Spacecraft By The Ships Second In Command – Telly The Humanoid Pleiadian Life Form. Captain Tom Relies Heavily On Telly – For His Advanced Non-Human Analyical Abilities. Tom & The Crew Of Beteleuse Mk 7 Typical Mission Is To Interfere Constructively In The Histories Of Rogue Backward Civilisations. Are Kept In Check From Spiraling Out Of Control Due To their Emotionality & War-Like Dispositions. These Missions Utilise Time Travel To Moments Where The Planet Is In Crisis Or Critical Turning Points Which Could, Left Unchecked Threaten The Galactic Order Of Advanced Civilisations.. We Now Join Captain Tom Lister Of Betelgeuse Mk 7.

“This Is The Captains Log Of Tom Lister, Captain Of The Starship Betelgeuse Mk7. I Have…Landed… Far Back…Into Earths History… I Am Amongst This Small…… 12ft Square Room…It Seems Like Early-To-Mid 21St Century Earth …There Are Empty Beer Cans Littered On the Floor…The Striking Thing Is The Amount Of What Earth People Once Called “Books”. These Were The Devices Human’s Used To Disseminate Commentary On Their Social Condition, In One Way Or Another.

Tom Picked Up A Handfull Of Books On the Floor:

Plato’s Timaes

Henry Bukowski – Ham On Rye

Edward Gibbon – The Rise & Fall Of The Roman Empire

Stephen Hawking – A Brief History of Time

Thomas Kuhn – The Structure Of Scientific Revolutions

Kafka – A Collection of Short Stories

Tom thought to Himself: “Judging By These Books, & All The Others Strewn About – The Inhabitant of The Studio Flat Was Definitely A Independently Minded & Cerebral Character – Perhaps That’s His Problem”

” The Room Is Cluttered With Much More Strange Things, Other Than The Books. There Are These Things Called “Electric Guitars” Propped Against The Corners…There is A Tall Black Tower Emitting What Seems To Be Loud Cacophony Type Music…There Is An Unmade Bed, But It Looks Like It Was Slept In Recently…There Is A Shelf Full Of Small Plastic Containers Containing Disk Like Things….There Is Hieroglyphic Like Art On the Containers..& Writing On the Disks…There Is A Dank Musty Smell & Dust Flakes Dancing In the Sunlight…That Is Sliding Through A Crack In This Thing Covering A Window…..There Are Men’s Clothes Lying On the Ground…Many Trousers On The Floor That Almost Look As If Someone Has Beamed Out Of Them Instantly.”

Tom Now Engaged Telly, Who Was On The Ship Overhead And Awaiting Tom’s Communication.

” Telly….Do You Have A Reading On This Place From the Holo-History-Log Yet?”

Telly Advised Tom:

“Captain, I Have Searched The History Database Of Your Location…”It Seems You Have Landed In The Studio Apartment Of One Hank Schmidt In The Year 2034…He Was A Little Known And Aging ‘Neo-Beatnik’. Primarily He Was An Underground Writer Who Gained A Cult Following Among The Numerous Disaffected Youths & Also The Ranks of The ‘Older & Forgotten’…. His Work Was Always Fictionalised – But Contained Truthful Descriptions Of Earth’s Social, Political & Economic Landscape….This ‘Fictionalisation Of The Truth’ Was Also How He Avoided His Surveillance & Capture By Those In Various Levels Of The 21st Century Earth’s By Now Well Advanced Corrupted Authority …… In His Works, He Described The Fascist World Government & Its Efforts To Curtail Basic Freedoms…..His Work, Words & Wisdom Later Becoming Popular With The Rebel Movement That Attempted To Topple The Fascist World Govt…This Rebel Movement & Army Were Eventually Known As “The Return Battalion” – The Name Symbolising A Return To The Freedom That They Had Always Imagined Was Indeed Actually Possible….”

Telly Continued To Describe This Timeline & Betelgeuse’s Now Emerging Mission

“The “Return Battalion” Emerged As A Fighting Force Around The Year 2139, But Not Before the Devastation Of A Nuclear 3rd World War Had Already Broken Out, Devastated The Earth, & Set It Back Back Centuries…..The Rebels Of ‘The Return Battalion” Were Tough, But Were Fighting Over the Scraps Of A Burnt-Out World…. Captain…I Believe Our Mission is To Find Hank Schmidt & Give Him Vital Prior Information About Earth’s World Fascist Government’s Plans & Their Key Technology… Thus Aiding In Its Toppling By The Rebels, And In Doing So, Avoiding The Nuclear World War Altogether.

Captain Tom Replied.

“Thank You Telly, Your Analysis is Fantastic, How Certain Are You Of This”

“I Calculate The Odds At 99.784% Captain”.

“Thanks Telly, And I Agree – That’s IS Our Mission”.

It Was At That Point Tom Stepped Onto Some Dirty Underwear & Heard A Toilet Flushing, Followed By the Sound Of Weary Footsteps On A Tile Floor. While Standing On A Pair Of Hank’s Dirty Underwear, He Found It Hard to Believe He Was About To Meet The Spiritual Leader Of A The Return Rebellion, The Organization That Slowly Won Control Of The Post Earth WW3 Era & Had Sown the Seeds For Tom & The Betelgeuse’s Existence In the 23rd Century. Tom Made A Pact To Himself He’d Not Show Any Outwardly Signs Of Nervousnous.

Because The Ship’s Beaming Down Process Only Allowed Living Tissue To Be Beamed Without Accompanying Non-Living Items – Tom Was Standing Naked. He Quickly Grabbed An Old Coat & Pants From the Floor, & Hurriedly Put Them On. He Then Attempted To Muss His Far-Too-Short, ‘Short Back & Sides’ Hair Up.

Tom Looked Around For Something To Confirm That He Was Indeed In Hank Schmidt’s Apartment – He Saw A Bunch Of Opened Letters Pinned Top The Wall – All Publisher Replied Rejection Letters To A Writer Named Hank Schmidt. Tom Released A Sigh – The Beaming Process Had Worked Well – Sometimes Due To Quantum Fluctuations – It Didn’t And He’d Have To High Tail Out Of Wherever He Was.

Hank Thought Quickly – He’s Needed To Look Like A Fan Of Hanks – He Scanned The Bookshelves That Lined The Room. He Saw A Shelf With About Ten Books On It, All With Hank Smith Written On The Spines. He Grabbed One At Random – It Was A Book Of Hanks Sci-Fi Short Stories.

Hank Schmidt Finally Appeared From the Bathroom, He Saw Tom, He Was Startled, But Not Amazingly So. Given Hank Had A Cult Following, This Kind Of Thing Was Now Happening More & More.

It Used To Annoy Him, But He Realised That A Good Writer Can’t, Try As They May, Live In A Vacuum: Writers Inevitably Create ‘Committed Fans’ When They Successfully Create A Great Piece Of Writing. He Accepted That Brute Fact.

When Hank Saw Tom, He Assumed It Was Just Another Beatnik Who Liked His Philosophy & Was Appearing At His Door, Or Even In His Room. But He Was Slightly Suspicious, As He Sensed Tom Was Cleaner Cut Than His Usual Fan – After All Tom Had The Military Haircut Of Short Back & Sides & His Face Looked Different To Any Male Fan’s He’d Ever Seen – That Is, Well Shaved, Alert, And Focussed.

To Captain Tom, Hank Schmidt Looked Quite Dishevelled & Hungry, Was Bearded, And Tall With A Small But Discernable Aire Of Confidence. His Mind Was Now Being Well Jogged – He Now Remembered He Had Studied Hank In His ‘Earth History’ Class, At The Academy.

The Two Of Them Were Facing Off For A Few Too Many Seconds Without Words Spoken. Tom Snapped Out Of His Mini-Trance When He Saw The Unease In Hank’s Eyes, He Moved To Remedy It, To Allay His Suspicions. Thinking Quickly Tom Said:

“Hi Hank Sorry To Bother You, The Door Was Open….I’m A Big Fan, Can You Sign This Book?”.

Hank Showed Signs Of Relief.

“Sure – You Like Short Stories? Who Should I Make It Out To……Hey Is That My Jacket You’re Wearing??”

Tom Squirmed Just A Little.

“Er…Yes, Sorry I Was Cold…Hope You Don’t Mind – I’m From A Warm Climate”.

Hank Smiled, He Found The Off-Beat-ness Of It All Quite Charming & He Had A Heap Of Old Jackets Anyway. His Fans Had Sneaked A Lot Of His Clothes Over The Years.

Tom Smiled Confidently, He Knew He’d Be Able to Help Hank Schmidt’s & The Rebel’s Cause. All Going Well, This Mission Back Into Earths History Would Keep Most Of The Good Parts Of Hank’s Future Post WW3 Rebellion World, & Far Lessen The Massive Amounts Of Deaths, Damage & Destruction. But Tom Knew There Were No Guarantees When Engaged In Time Travel To Change The Past

Tom Then Had An Mini Stress Attack, His Thoughts Raced – Would, In Taking On This Mission They Destroy Their Own Future Existence? Would This Create A Paradox That Would Sabotage The Plan? Would Tom Find Himself Literally Fading Into Invisibility, & Re-emerging Into Another Life, Another Name, Another Job In Another Timeline?

Tom Calmed Himself – He Realized That With This Time Jump Being Only Two Hundred Odd Years The ‘Time Travell Divergence Effect’ Could Only Be Tiny – Perhaps 0.5% Tops. He Scolded Himself For Forgetting This And For Letting His Emotions Fly.

Hank Signed The Book.

“So Fella, What Was Your Favourite Story Of Mine From this Book?”

Tom Thought Quickly – Of Course He’s Never Read it Before, Having Covertly Just Picked It Up Off Hank’s Own Shelf.

“Ah…Yes, I Really Liked The Story About The Alien Base – It Really Made Me Think”.

Tom’s Strategy of Vagueness Had Worked Well.

“Oh Yeah, That Was One Of My Good Ones – After All, With The Moon Being Tidally Locked To The Earth It’s A Great Place To Observe Us Boobs On Earth Clandestinely – I Wouldn’t Be Surprised if that Story I Came Up With Is True After All…..Hey What Your Name Buddy”?

“Cap……Er Tom Lister…Sorry Hank, Cap Was My Old High-School Nickname…Make It Out to Tom”

Despite The Slight Slip Up of Almost Calling Himself ‘Captain Tom Lister’, He Was Happy In Not Hiding His Real Name. There Was No Need To Make Up A Fake Name, He Was A Temporary Visitor From The Far Distant Future – He Had No Current Earth Bound Life To Protect – & The Small Divergence Factor Was In His Favour Anyway -So Long As he Wasn’t Killed That Is.

Hank Signed The Inside Cover. It Read:

To Tom, Wishing You Happy Galactic Travails & The Successful Avoidance Of The Bad Guys

– Hank Schmidt September Twenty Two 2034

The Irony Of Hank’s Inscription Was Not Lost On Tom.

Hank Schmidt Pointed To The Shabby Threadbare But So Comfy Looking Seat In The Corner Of the Room & Said:

“Sit Down Tom & Tell Me About Yourself”.

Tom Duly Sat Down, But Did So As If He’d Never Seen A Old Comfy Recliner Before -Which Of Course, He Hadn’t.

“Oh, I’m Just From out Of Town & Heard About Your Ideas – I Just Thought I’d Grab Your Ear – So To Speak…And Your Signature Of Course”.

Tom Smiled Warmly, Non-Threateningly.

Taking The Opportunity To Set The Conversation – Hank Set The Opening Topic.

“Ok Well, Sure, I Got Some Ideas Let’s Start With What’s Wrong With This Place – This Madhouse On the Outskirts Of The Milky Way – Buckle Up Son Were in For A Long Night – But We Do Have Beer!”

Hank Cracked One Open For Himself & Threw One Across the Room To Tom. He Took A While to Open It But With the Low Lighting Hank Didn’t Notice.

“Oh, I Have All the Time In the World” Tom Said As He Sheepishly Tasted The Beer & Successfully Hid His Dissatisfaction.

Hank Sat Also In An Old Comfy Seat, Crossed Legged With Beer In Hand, Stroking His Beard & Holding His Beer Can Taking The Odd Big Slug As He Regaled his Thoughts.

“Ok, Well Tom, Let Me Think The Tipping Point Came In 1984, That’s When The Return Of Fascism Truly Begun In Earnest…We Thought We’d Beaten It For Good A Few Decades Earlier, But It Truth It Was Just Laying Dormant- Waiting To Strike Again!”

Hank Slugged Back the Last Dregs & Dropped His Beer Can On the Floor, Where It Clanked Next To The Thirty Odd Yesterdays Empty Cans. Hank’s Favourite Branded Beer Was Called “Lugenfield Ale”.

Hank Continued. His Monologue.

“You See Tom, The Big Change Became Noticeable In The 1980’s. There Was An Old WW2 Vet & B-Grade Actor Called Randy Rippenstein…..He Was Put Office By The Cartels…..He Would Be Their Pre-Approved Puppet….The Same As All the Other Leaders Of The Western Nations…Through The Cover Of the “Democratically Elected Puppets’ – The Bastards Would Systematically Attack the Bulk Of The Population – the Ave Joes Living Paycheck To Paycheck.

The Bastards Attacked Their Affordable Housing, Their Airy Workplaces, Their Mostly Un-technologically Surveilled Cities…Slowly by Way Of “A Thousand Cuts” They Created A Techno Fascist State – That is, 90% Of Todays World – There Are Precious Few Nooks & Crannys Of Freedom Left, Luckily I Am Good At Finding Them – Hence Why You Are Here With Me Having A Beer – Totally Unmolested.”

He Continued After Slugging Back Another Beer & Throwing The Last On The Ever Growing Pile.

Hank Continued With Tom Listening Politely & Intently, Taking The Odd Small Sip.

“This New Leadership Structure Was Created With The Aim Of Doing Away With The Meddlesome Home Owning, Car Driving, Middle Classes. You See Tom They Were Created In Their Hundreds of Millions After The Last Big War – When The Social Strategy Followed Was Socialism Mixed With Capitalism”.

Hank Took Another Slug, Wiped His Dripping Mouth & Continued.

“……After Getting Rid Of Temporary Post War Freedoms, They Rekindled The Traditional Lord-Serf-Slave System, With Obviously A Few Soulless Faux Elites As The Worlds Omnipotent Rulers. Their Goal Was To Create A Technocratic Surveillance State Which They Openly Called ‘Neo-Feudalism’. In Essence This Was Billions Now Captured In Slavery, With A Perhaps A Thousand Slave-Masters That Lived With Opulence, Freedom & Impunity.”

Tom Listened Intently & Pretended To Sip. Hank Again Finished The Last Can & Started Another, This Time Throwing It Behind His Head, And Thus Clanking On Top Of Another Empty. He continued His Thoughts.

“Above The Frontline Slave Masters, In Hierarchical Tiered Fashion, Would Be Regionalized & National Governer Kings, & Of Course A Supreme Ruler – And While Prima Facie, This Man Was An Earths Creation, This Ruler Became Dependant On An Artificially Intelligent Advisor. This Entity Was & Is Ruled In Fact By The Realms Of Supernatural Darkness, Not Being Of This Earth. They- The Faux Elite Slave Masters – Thought It Was A Computer Run By Intelligent Software -But That Was Just The Mask, The Robbery, Swindle – You See Tom Despite Their PHD’s & Masters Degrees – They Are Too Dumb To Know What These AI Things Are – They Are Pandora’s Box Unleashed.”

Hank Again Threw Away & Grabbed Another Beer, Exactly As Before. Tom Forced Himself A Slug, Which This Time Seem To Taste Better That The First Few, He Felt Strangely Warm. Hank Continued His Monologue.

“To Cut A Long Story Short Tom, These Guys Are Like The Old Fascists, Risen Again, Learning From Their Mistakes, A Millionfold Wiser To The Threats Against Them, Are Far Better Propagandists, Richer & A Billion Times More Ruthless – You See Tom, My Books & Short Stories Are Simply A Warning – I Am Just Trying To Use The Cover Of Fiction To Tell Everyone About It -I’m Trying To Break Through the Brainwashed Glazed Eyes, I’m Trying To Slowly De-Zombify A Few People Here & There. It’s Hard Tom, I’m Fighting Decades of Successful Programming – 90% Of People Are Like Docile Cows, When It Gets To 99%, I Think There Can Be No Kernal Of Critical Mass Left To Form The Rebellion We Need – Every Snowflake Needs Its Speck Of Dust”.

Hank Grabbed Another Beer, this Time Adjusting His Scarf & Glasses, Finger Combing His Shoulder Length Hair, And Pulling Up His Loose Beltless Trousers. He Looked Straight At Tom.

“So Tom, My Mysterious Out Of Towner, Book Lover With A Crew Cut, What Do You Think – Do You Agree With Me So Far? Or Do Think I’m A Crackpot?”

While Waiting For Tom’s Reply, Hank Then Reached Over To The Coffee Table To His Left, & Placed the Needle Down On Record Player, & The Classical Music Of Brahms Drifted To Their Ears. He Threw Hank A New Beer.

Tom Sat Back, Threw The Empty Beer Back Over His Head & Caught the Next Beer Thrown to Him, Cracked It Open & Slugged It Back Heartily, Mimicking Hank Perfectly.

“No, You’re Not Crazy Or A Crackpot – I Think Your Assessment & Portrayal Of Earth In This year Of 2034 is Accurate – That’s Why i Love Your Writing – But Excuse Me Before You Tell Me More, I Must Use The Bathroom, This Beer Is Bursting My Bladder!”.

Tom Got Up But While On His Way He Kicked A Random Book From The Boheme Detritus Laden Floor – It Moved Towards Hank Who Noticed It & A Quizzical Look Moved Over His Bearded Face – For He Didn’t Recognize That Book Cover At All -It Was As If It Had Been Planted There Secretly, Beamed Down You Might Say.

Hank Cracked Open Another Beer & Waited For Tom to Return From the Bathroom. He Waited Five, Ten & Twenty Minutes. He Downed One, Two Beers, Three Beers, & Listened To The Whole “Side B” Of The Record. Finally Running Out Of Patience, He Went To The Bathroom Door, He Knocked & Yelled Out.

“Yo Tom! You Givin’ Birth In There?…We Still have So Much to Discuss- And Drink!”

There Was No Answer.

He Rapped Louder.

Again, No Answer, No Noise.

“Hey Man, I’m Comin’ In to See If You’re Ok Man”.

Hank Opened The Door To The Open-Windowed Mouldy Old Bathroom, Tom Was Nowhere to Be Seen. But Hank Saw Tom’s Clothes Were On The Ground, As Well As The Book Tom Had Asked Him To Sign.

He Chuckled As He Thought To Himself Out Loud “Wow He…He….Climbed Out the Window…Oh Well….Man What A Square, He Couldn’t Handle My Simple Truths. But Why Did He Take Off His, I Mean My Clothes That He Was Wearing?”

Hank Went Back To His Beer Seat, Not Overly Perturbed At Tom’s Sudden Disappearance – He Enjoyed The Out-Of-The Ordinary-ness Of the Situation – And After All, He Could Use It As ‘Idea Fodder’ For The Next Short Story.

Hank Sat And Cracked Open Another Lugenfield, Then He Saw The Book That Tom Had Kicked. It Wasn’t One he’d Written Or Acquired. It Was A Thick Thousand Page White Covered Paperback With The Title In Thick Black Times Roman Font it Simply Read:

NERO’S NEW PLANSA New Rejigged Roman Empire To Rule 21st Century Earth

Hank Flicked Through It, He Soon Saw that It Was Essentially A Battleplan. It Had Future Dates, Maps, Chapters With the Following Titles: “Schematics Of The Invisible Thought Control Weapons”, “Mass Prison Containment”, “Microwave Based Disablement”, “Viruses Planted To Enable Rollout Of Human Brain Chip Technology”.

The Books Body Had Detailed Descriptions Of How To Win A New War Against The People. It Would Unfold Via A Neo Feudal Techno Fascist System. Instead Of Being Manned By Deeply Flawed Human Roman Soldiers , It Would Be Supercharged Via An Army Of Never-Tired, Super-Intelligent, Cheaply-Run, Artificial Intelligence Software Bots & Embodied Robots.

On Hand 24-7 the AI Tyranny System Would Advise, Punish, Report & Surveil. The Book Mentioned & Outlined What Seemed to Be The Secret Weapon Of It All – A Nuclear Powered Core Housing A 10 Million Point IQ Prime AI Advisor, That Was Hooked up To A Giant Series of Networked Underground Feeder Mainframes.

Thanks to Tom, Telly & The Crew Of Betelgeuse Mk 7, The Future Fascist Earth Battleplans & Tech Blueprints Had Fallen Into Enemy Hands – Hank’s. He Frantically Flipped Through The Pages For A Published In Date – He Found It. It Said Published In 2035 By Centurian Spear Press.

Hank’s Book-Holding Hands Trembled As the Realisation Set In. This Book Was From the Future! It Was The Real Deal.

Hank Then Turned To The Last Chapter – It Detailed The AI Computer Code That Would Make The Perfect Tyranny All Possible – It Was The Code That The Supreme AI Supercomputer Would Use – To Directly Create Plant Fascist Friendly ‘ThoughtWaves’ Into The Unwitting Pre-Microchipped Heads of The Masses.

Hanks’s Brain Was Being Blown, But he Was too Wise To Let It Rattle Him. He Knew This Was What He Had Been Waiting For – Without really knowing It. It Was The Gift To Allow A New Organised Rebellion to Form.

Hank Now Thought Strategy. He Could Re-Write The Book As A Rebels Handbook, In A Series Of Coded Short Sci-Fi Stories. With His Information They’d Be Able To Predict Expertly All the War Moves Of the Enemy & Destroy the AI Mega Beast Before It Was Built, Secured & Functional.

Even So, He Threw The Book Behind Him Like It Was Any Other Than His. It Landed With A Thick THUD. Hank Promised Himself He’d Start Work On Operational Plans Tomorrow. For Now He Wanted To Get Some Final Relaxation – After All Writers Are Creatures Of Habit. He’d Be A Busy Man For the Next Two Years At Least. He Was Resigned To his Fate & Duty To the Future.

His Near Future Was Now Crystallised To The Mammoth Task At Hand. To Begin The Writing Sessions To Create The Yet-Formed Rebellion’s First Volume Handbook -All Coded As Entertaining Short Stories. He Knew He Would Write The Words To Save Earth. Now He Would Grab The Last Chance To Relax Before Tomorrow.

Hank Put On Some Rachmaninov On the Record Player. He Reached Behind Himself & Cracked Open Another Lugenfield & Took A Full Can Emptying Slug. He Looked At The Can, It Looked Slightly Different. Then He Noticed What Was Different – The Writing Had Mysteriously Changed To “Lugendorf”. He Jumped Up Off His Chair – Staring At The Can, Then Fell To His Messy Floor & Grabbed Can After Can to Check The Labels – All Said “Lugendorf” Instead Of “Lugenfield”. He Knew Then That The World Had Changed A Little, He Also Knew This Had A Lot to Do With His Recently Disappearing Guest – Tom.

Meanwhile Tom Had Returned To The 23rd Century. He Was On the Bridge Of The Betelgeuse. These Were Always Stressful Moments – Where He Would Turn To Telly & Ask Him To Look At The Future History Log, So As To Confirm If Their Mission Was Successful Or A Failure.

Telly Went Into The Holo-History Log For Earth In the Year 2055 – By Then He Figured Hank’s Rebellion War Would Be Over, With the Winners Firmly Ensconced. He Put The Screen In Holographic Mode. He Zoomed Into Italy, Then The Vatican City – There Were No Buildings – It Was Now A Giant Park With Weeping Willow Trees, Mighty Oaks And A Huge Artificial Lake – There Were Tourists Walking Along the Paths Walking At Leisure. Now He Zoomed Into Washington DC, Capitol Hill. It Was Entirely Gone And In its Place Was A Giant Field, Full Of Poppys, Water Features & A Monument.

“Zoom In On That Monument Telly”, Said Captain Tom.

“Yes Captain”

The Hologram Showed The Statues In Great Detail. it Was Of A Tall Dishevelled Man With A Scarf, Tatty Coat, Wearing Glasses & Had Shoulder Length Hair. The Statue Was Holding An Open Book, Outstretched In His Hand. In The Other Hand He Clutched An Open Can Of Beer. At the Statues Feet There Were Many Empty Half Crumpled Empty Beer Cans.

Tom Sighed In Relief, As He Knew The Rebels Had Won. He Plopped Exhaustedly In His Bridge Command Chair & Looked Wearily At Telly, Who Had turned Off the Holographic Image.

“Where Too Next Telly?”

“Captain -Are you Slipping? Don’t you Remember? We Have 3 Weeks R & R In The Trappist Star System, On The Planet 1-E, Chosen For It’s Low Light, Water World-ness, Oxygenated Air & Semi Tropical Temperatures – It’s Only 41 Light Years From Earth, We Will Be There In 3 Warp-Drive-Hours .”

Tom Beamed A Giant Planetoid Sized Smile.

“Great Telly – So Long As Their No Early 21st Century, Machiavellian Earthlings I’m Happy. Put On Some Rachmaninov Will You – Oh & Materialise Me Some Of That ‘Lugenfield’ Beer Will You””

“That’s Right Captain Sir – The Planet Trappest 1-E of the Aquarius Constellation, Is Uninhabited For Another 5017.9 years…..And Your Lugendorf Beer, From The Last Mission is Materialising Now In Your Hand. Lugenfield Has Unfortunately Ceased To Have Ever Existed”

“Ok Telly, Good Work – I Only Hope It Tastes The Roughly Same As It Did In Hank Schmidt’s Dank Studio in 21st Century Earth.”

“Well, It Can’t Possibly Be That Different Sir – The Distortions In The Reality Field Displacement On Our Missions Are The Best Currently Possible”.

“Touche Telly, Touche”

The Beer Materialises & Captain Tom Takes A Slug, His Facial Expression Is One Of Brief Doubt & Then Pure Pleasure – Marked by An Ear To Ear Smile. He Chugs the Rest, Then Throws the Empty Can Behind Him & Over His Head. The Can Hits The Floor, & The Ships Waste Removal System Slowly Dematerialises It.

Tom Had One More Request For the Journey.

“Telly, Why Don’t You Materialise Me One Of Hanks Books, Let’s Start With That One He Signed For Me In His Apartment – I Really Should Read That”

“Yes Captain”.

The Book Materialised In Tom’s Hands, He Opened It & Started Reading.

THE END

“The Well-Heeled Cat Speaks”

To My Dear New Feline Friend From The Next-Door Suburb.

I Have Scratched These Words On Our Leafy Mutual Boundary Line,

On A Paper-Like Thinly Barked Tree,

As Is Our Standard Practice.

Please Forgive My Paw-writing.

In Answer To Your Prior Query:

I Have Two Slaves.

A Fat Female One & A Thin Male One.

They Have Been Annoying Me Lately.

Permit Me to Explain:

The Fat Female One Keeps Moving My Comfy Blanket,

That She Has Sneakily Has Also Taken For Herself,

As There Is Technically Enough For Us Both.

She Does These things Without Asking Permission.

Occasionally I Must Discipline Her When She Tuggs The Blanket Too Much.

I Rise Up From My Deserving Slumber & Soft Paw Her Chubby Fingers,

And I Combine This With A Hiss & Use My “If Looks Could Kill” Face.

After My Shrewd Tactics She Always Get The Picture.

The Skinny Male One Also Annoys By Spilling My Milk.

He Does This For Lack Of Care In Pouring The Big Milk Jug.

Both My Slaves Are Bad At Answering The Door,

Especially In The 11PM To 7AM Period.

Sometimes I Have To Scratch & Wail For An Hour,

& Often This Is Without Reward.

I Have Told Them To Arrange A Small Swinging Door For Ease-Of-Access,

But This Seemingly Falls On Deaf Ears.

Though I Must Admit They Are Occasionally Good At Some Things,

They Generally Mix My Food Up Well, & It Is Regular That The Other “Kibble Cats” Become Jealous.

It Is Marvelous That The Thin Male One Makes Sure To Not “Over-Garden” My Land,

Thus, I Have Plenty Of Chateaux-Le-Hidey-Holes At My Disposal.

I Could Continue, But I’m Sure You Catch My Drift.

My Slaves Are Imperfect But Are Generally Passable & Sometimes They Surprise Me.

Now Excuse Me, I Must Fly Over A Low Wall, Land On A Poor Sparrow & Devour Him Whole.

Yes, Like All Upper-Classes, I Still Love To Hunt,

And Then Play With My Food.

Nocturnally Yours,

The Well-Heeled Fellow Cat,

From The Adjoining Feline-Defined Suburb.

P.S. How Are Your Slaves Behaving? Do Tell Soon By Writing On The Other Side Of This Tree.

“(Enter “Filler” Here)” ( A Poem)

By Martin Anton Smith

It Has Been 4 Weeks Since The Last Material.

This Is Called A Quasi-Writers Block Period.

So What’s A Hack Poet To Do?

Well My Fine Un-Feathered Friend,

The Answer Is to “Release Filler”.

This Is A Time Honored Practise,

Of The More Spotted Immature Hack Artiste,

Which Is 99.99% Of Us.

Yes – this Is the “Filler” – That Has Become “Stock”.

“Filler” That Has Been Around Since Adam

Started Drawing Doodles In the Sand

Thanks To Eve Biting The Apple Of Knowledge.

After That, I’m Sure By The Next Week He Said

“Man I think My Material Has Taken A Dive”.

Thus We Latter Day Fools Are Simply Recreating The Folly.

the Last thing To Say On Filler Is This:

The Secret Is To Recognise That Stuff That “Isn’t Filler”,

Such As

The First Terminator Movie

The Beatles

The Post War Economic Boom

A Supermodel

A Sunrise

Is Actually “Filler” Too.

The World Is A Well Disguised Hodgepodge Of “Filler” –

This Poem Being A Simple Example Of That Fact.

Oh & One More Thing – The Easiest Way To Spot Filler –

Is It Contains An Obvious Glib & Banal Final Couple Of Toots.

Although Perhaps I Am Wrong,

After All – Isn’t It True That One Man’s “Filler”,

Is Another Man’s “Killer”?

(Enter Sound the Effect Of The Trumpet of Defeated-ness Here)

“A Page In Time” (A Poem)

By Martin Anton Smith

Reading a really good book very slowly…

In Slothe-like fashion…

Is actually quite the joy….

Taking in each sentence with ‘comprehensional’ aplomb…

Not unlike the last grasps of a starving man…

As he reaches for a ripe-aciously rounded plum…

As it floats holographically in the air…

Only in this case…

The book is actually there…

As is the 10,000 songs on Shuffle…

As is the half empty can of beer….

As low or no lighting…..

As is the battery charging solitude…

Yes, despite creeping melancholia….

There are still simple & life reviving pleasures out there….

Even I must at least admit that…

When the day has been a giant hassle…..

WWMD’s (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith

He or She Or It Was Likely Very Bad At Maths.

They Can’t Solve Problems To Save Themselves.

They’ve Been Unleashed On Many Unsuspecting Victims,

Throughout The Corporate Office Space World.

This Now Includes The Politicians & Public Service Dept’s

As The Entire World Has Now Become “Corporatised”.

How Do They Survive?

They Are Expert At Being Sneaky Fuckers.

They Pass The Buck & Their Work To The Too Nice People –

Who CAN Problem Solve.

But If There Are No Nice People Left To Take The Buck –

That’s Where Society Totally Collapses.

They Are Almost Always the Best Dressed.

They Scream Like A Toddler When You Ask Them:

“Do Your Own Work.”

They Act Politically & Brown Nose the Boss,

While Stabbing All Others In The Back.

They Often Are Adept At “Falling Upwards” –

(Like That Asshole US Politician Beto O’Rourke)

Meaning They Usually Get Into Topper Management Or High Office,

Which Rewards them For Being Useless Scam Artists.

You Can Spot Them By Their Language –

They Use Empty Platitudes Like –

“Can You Get This Across the Line”,

“Lets Get Things Done”.

Big Companies Are Infested By Them

& They Become A Virus On Society.

These Assholes Really Are

WWMD’s

Workplace Weapons Of Mass Destruction.

They Are The Reason:

That’s Why Nothing You Buy Is Good Anymore.

That’s Why It’s Overpriced.

That’s Why Workplace Culture Sucks Arse.

That’s Why Councils & Governments Can’t Fix Even A Highway Pothole.

That’s Why You Get Taxed To Within An Inch of Your Life.

If Only WWMD’s Were Like George W Bush’s WMD’s,

And Were A Total Fabrication.

Unfortunately, For The Ever Toiling & Suffering Good Folk Of This Planet –

They Are Only Too Real.

What Can You Do?

You Can Suffer & Never Become One Of Those WWMD’s –

& Wear That Badge Of Honour Proudly –

You Can Smile & Imagine This Car-Wreck Is A Cadillac.

You Can Steadfastly Refuse To Go Insane.

All In All –

That’s Really All You Can Do.

For Yourself & The Remnants Of Civil Society.

“Congratulations I’ve Been Admitted to the Bar” (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Today I Was Admitted To The Bar

This Was A Great Achievement

That I Had Put So Much Effort Into

What’s That?

Oh My Fine Rare As Hen’s Teeth Reader

You Think I Become A Lawyer?

You – If You Are The Stock Standard “Nouveau Riche” Person

Think I Am Now A “Success”

Because I’m A “Lawyer”?

And My Future Is One Of

Dinner Parties Where Everyone Says The Exact Same Thing?

A Nice House On The Hill?

A Sham Marriage?

With A Wife That Hates Me?

All The Anti-Depressant’s The Doc Can Shambolically Dispense?

A Flash Car?

A Mutual Fund Portfolio Managed By A Glorified Scammer?

Called A “Financial Planner” Or “Sharebroker”?

With 2.3 Kids at “Private School” & A Dog & an Audi Or BMW Or A Mercedes??

Oh No No No No!

That Will Not Do!

You Couldn’t Be More Mistaken!

I Would Never Involve Myself With Such A Unbridled Shit-Show!

To Put It Quite Plainly

Let Me Clarify:

I said I was “Admitted To The Bar”

This is slightly wrong

I Was “Re-admitted To The Bar”

Not The Lawyer Regulatory Kind But The Selling Alcohol Kind.

I Had Been Barred From The Dive Bar

For Loutish Behaviour

And Having Served My Week On the Side

Barman Sammy Simmons Called Me And Said

“Congratulations Barney – You Have Been Re-admitted To The Bar”

I Was Free To Again Drink With The Schmoes

And Tell Wild Untrue Stories Of My Many Glories

My Car Sucks, It Backfires, Breaks Down & Is Rusty

I Had A Wife But She Was Toothless & She Split

Across Many, Many State Lines,

Far Too Numerous To Count.

I Have 5.2 Kids Out There, To 3.7 One Night Stands

I Live in A Decrepit Boarding House,

Which Will One Day Get Flooded/Burnt Down/Red Stickered,

As It Is Not Situated On A Hill In Those “Leafy Green Suburbs”.

Society Calls Me A “Bum” A “Loser” A “Drunk” Or A “Fool”

But No Matter How Bad My Life Seems To Be

I’d Never Be Stupid Enough To Want To

“Admitted To The Bar”

Of The Lawyerly False Glory Kind.

How Can Anyone Do That?

I Could Never Live In That Charade,

For Even One Month,

Let Alone The 2 to 5 Decades

That Those Brainwashed Faux Elite Subject Themselves To.

The Stress Of Keeping Up Those Appearances,

I Something I Wouldn’t Wish on My Worse Enemy.

There Are Probably Some Good Lawyers Out There,

But I Haven’t Met One In Fifty Odd Years

& Yes You Are Correct – Those Years Have Indeed Been “Odd”

The “Good Lawyers” – If Indeed they Exist AT ALL

Must Be Very Good At Hiding.

I’ll Stay A “Working Class Hero”,

Even If I Am A Wannabe One,

& Pull Up My Bar Stool,

& Tell Of The Glory Days

To The Gang.

We Will Belch, Fart & Yell Loudly,

But Not Neccesarily In That Order.

At Least We Know We Are “Losers”

But At Least We Produce Real Stuff

Like Waratahs, Wire, Dug Ditches & Customized Trucks,

Our Habitat Is In Shipyards, Sheds & The Outdoors

We Make Real Goods In What Is Called The “Real Economy”

Our Goods Are Essential, Non-Speculative, Tangible, Non Parasitic.

Stuff that Builds Great Stable & Flourishing Economies & Societies.

So – We Are Not “Losers” At All

Unlike Those Snooty Lawyers

Who Only Create Limitless Factory Issue Units Of Misery

& Spread It Around The World (Like A Virus).

Yes, We Can Be Bad – But We Ain’t Ever THAT BAD.

And When World War Three Finally Breaks

Our Younger Ones Will Win It – Like Always.

Ok I’m Now Off To Be “Re-Admitted To the Bar”

Thank you For Your Time

After All -You Could Have Been Doing So Many Other Things

Such As Drinking At A Bar Or Ringing A Divorce Lawyer

Or Something Else In-Between Those Two Spectrums

The Menendez Boys

We’re A Happy Family?

Have We Had Lobotomies?

We Eat At The Table

But Hallucinations

Crowd Our Best Intentions

We Fights Our Dad’s Dreams

The Top Dog Has Us Scared

We: Kids & Enemies

What Will We Do?

We Are The Menendez Boys

Stars U Might Say

Of The First Viral Murder Case

We Didn’t Deny The Murder

But We Had Our Reasons

The First Case Deadlocked

But The Second Did Us In

We Got Life With No Parole

Back In ’93

Now We’re Old Men

But Finally Together Again

Thank Heavens For Small Mercies

Believe Us We Are Reformed!

But We Know We’ll Soon Be Judged Again

We Are The Boys Eric & Lyall

You Could Call Us Career Men

But What’s Our Industry?:

It’s Our Fellow Men

Of The Penitentiary.

But Would Our Father Be Proud?

Or Would It Be Like The Old Times:

“Dad this Is What We Want”

“No Way Jose!

Because All You Boys Have Ever Shown Me

Is Mediocrity”

“Macroncke, The Diner, & The French Fourth Reich.” (A Short Story)

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Macroncke Sat At The Table At The Very Posh Restaurant. This Was the Little French Diner That Could. It Was A Favourite Of High Society In France. It Had Old Oak Panelling & Ocean Liner Motif, With Ambient Low Lighting.

There Was No Press Or Outsiders, So He Could Speak Freely Without Fear Of Being Recorded. As Could All His Inner Sanctum At Seated The Table. They Were Known As His Most Trusted Followers, But He Didn’t Trust Them That Much – After All, His Profession Was Politics.

He Had Narrowly Survived An Assassination Attempt From An Inner Circle Member Just Last Year, So, He Was Suitably Cautious About Everyone. This Wise Cautiousness Even Extended To Even His Wife – Prunella.

They All Sat & Watched The Riots On The Restaurant TV, That Was Perched Up High & Almost Out Of Sight, With The Sound Off, But The Captions On.

Late Yesterday It Had Begun. They Saw The Rioting, The Cars Burning, The Looting, The Explosions, The Angry Zombified Faces Of The Masses,

The Rocks & Fireworks Aimed Squarely At The Cops – Who Were No Longer Rugged Or Tough. the French Police System – Like All Institutions – Having Long Been Victims Of A Widespread Philosophe Of Declining Entry Standards.

They Saw All The Wall To Wall TV Coverage In Kingly Comfort. The Table Had Himself – The PM. It Had His Old School Teacher aka His 65-Year-Old Wife Prunella. The Remaining Few Were A Faceless But Nicely Committed & Brainwashed Bunch.

It Had The Minister of Defence. It Had The Minister For Health. It Had The Finance Minister. It Had the Minister For Technology. Finally, It Had The Minister Of Immigration.

But Given The Seemingly Dire Circumstances – Were They In A Bad Mood? Certainly Not. Anyone Who Didn’t Know ‘Dirty Politics’ Might Expect This, Given The Riots Plastered Through The Media. But No – They Were All Quite Jubilant. Ebullient. An Esprit de Corps, Was Clearly Evident.

For This Was A Great Opportunity – For Them & Their Movement. But A Disaster For The People of France. These Kinds Of Riots Were Mostly A Farce. Their Bark Was Far Worse than Their Bite. After All – They Only Burnt Down A Few Dozen Buildings – A Meare ‘Drop In the Ocean’, Compared to All France’s Key Infrastructure.

As Was A Similar Vein With The Looting. As With The Burnt Out Cars.

The ‘Police – Rioter Skirmishes’ As The Press Dubbed These Mostly Semi-Violent Affairs, Only Ever Resulted In Zero to Five Deaths. This Was No Twentieth Century Style Coup & They Knew It. But This Was Not Because The French Citizens Were Not Enraged By Revolutionary Feeling – They Were.

It Was Only Because They Had All Been Spiritually & Physically Weakened By The Plan Over So Many Decades. They Were Energetically Speaking Like A High Performance Car With An Empty Tank Of Fuel, Simply Running On Residual Vapours.

Now That His Inner Sanctum Had All Arrived & Exchanged Pleasantries, He Would Kick Off The Meeting. Macroncke Put His Phone Down On The Table & Stood Up, While Holding His Wine Glass Somewhat Crookedly, it Was Almost Empty, So Remained Un-spilled.

“Ah These Overgrown Teenage Fools Have Allowed Me To Crack Down – Even More Than Before –

I Will Happily Tar All The Masses With Their Own Brainless Fiery Brushes”

There Was Hooping, Hollering, Table Slapping & Half-Drunk Applause From All Cronies At The Little White Tableclothed Tables, Which Were Lined Together As To Effectively Form One Long Thin Table.

Macroncke Continued:

“Ladies & Gentlemen, What Are Your Ideas On Further Exploiting This Moment?”

The Finance Minister Said:

“I’ll Have A Word to The Central Bank Chairman – Remember He Is In Our Pockets – He Will Jack Up Interest Rates An Extra 5%, That’ll Put An Extra 1 Million Of ‘Em On the Streets”

There Was Rapturous Applause & Slugs Of Wine Thrown Back Into Their Wrinkly Lizard-Like Necks.

The Immigration Minister Said:

“I’ll Report That We Are Allowing Another 1,000,000 Abjectly Lost Souls Into France To Plug Employment Shortages”.

More Rapturous Applause Followed, Accompanied By Deathly Like Shrieks Of Vengeance.

Someone Knocked A Glass Over On the Floor – It Broke Loudly, But No One Picked It Up.

The Defence Minister Said:

“I’ll Instruct The Army & Navy That They Can Continue To Practise Their War Drills On the Streets & Allow Rubber Bullets To Fly”.

This Statement Proved As A ‘Damp Squib’, As Much More Meanness Was Expected By The Living Gouls At The Table. He Fixed This Dour Response By Saying:

“I’ll Instruct Them To “Accidentally” Run Over Ten Percent Of Them With Our Police Humvees”.

This Time Jubilation Was Duly Restored – The Cackles & Slaps Flowed Just As The Top-Tier Champagne Had Been. Macroncke’s Wife Prunella Was So Deliriously Happy She Laughed Like An Australian Outback Hyena.

It Was The Minister Of Health’s Turn.

“I’ll Get The Crooked Docs To Whip Up A New Compulsory Jab – To Reduce Their IQ by 10 Points!”

This They Loved Greatly & Hands Slapped The Table Applause & Woops Rang Out For Many Seconds.

The Technology Minister Rose & Adjusted His Glasses Like A Dull Deputy Principal Would Addressing Schoolchildren At Assembly.

“I’ll Put A Trojan House On All the Social Media Apps – It’ll Track Everyone Unawares

To Within A Centimeter”

This Made The Table So Happy they Got Up & Twirled About, Stamping Feet, Waving Arms & Slugging Back Wine Glasses.

Macroncke’s Wife Prunella Got Up & Said:

“Well, I Have No Portfolio & Am Not A Minister – But I Can Punish The Leader, Like I Used To Punish My Husband When He Was My 7-Year-Old Primary School Student”

Macroncke, Although A Fool Was Also An Experienced Statesman, So Only Half Blushed At This Wife Induced Very Awkward Moment – He Stayed Still & Quiet Amongst The Many Audience Murmurs. Prunella The Very Drunk PM’s Wife, Continued Her Monologue.

“I’ll Take The Ringleader Of the Rioters To the Front Of The Mob…. & Then While Facing His Followers –

I Will Pull His Pants Down Smack Him On His Botty, Yelling At Him ‘Who’s A Naughty Boy Then’ “.

The Crowd Around The Table Were At First Stunned Into Silence, Being Not Sure How Macroncke Would Take This Bold But Emasculating Move From His Much Older Wife.

All Eyes Were Eagerly Fixed On Macroncke.

He Stayed Stoney Faced At First -But Then Broke Into A Strained Maladroit Smile, As Typified By Top Politicians.

This Allowed Them All To Go Wild Beyond Belief. The Finance Minister Laughed So Hard He Had To Walk To the Bathroom, Clutching His Bottom While Walking In Hybridised Sloth/Tin Soldier Fashion.

Macroncke’s Wife Abruptly Did A Handstand Against The Bar. What A Pity For Onlookers, That She Also Had A Penchant For Wearing No Underwear.

The Faux Pas Of Her Below the Waste Nudity Was Politely Ignored By All, As If She Had Been Wearing Jeans & Not A Long Floral Skirt.

The Technology Minister Got Up & With A Crazed Expression Snapped His iPhone In Half.

The Defence Minister, Screwing Up A Mock Fight Actually Punched the Immigration Ministers ‘Lights’ Out. The Now Floored Immigration Minister, Gurgled Indecipherable Words While Unconscious On The Opulent Imported Turkish Rug.

The Aging & Very Overweight Minister Of Health Having Seen The Chaos Laughed So Hard His Hernia Re-Burst itself, He Hit the Floor Rolling Around & Clutching His Stomach. He Only Stopped Rolling In ‘Slow Moving Billiard Ball Style’, As He Landed Right Next To The Still Gurgling & Still Unconscious Immigration Minister.

It Took Some Weighty Slices Of An Hour For Everyone To Regain Their Equilibrium & For the Disarray To Clear. Some Stayed Disabled On the Floor, But Were None-The-Less Awake & Attentive Enough To Their Surroundings.

It Became Patently Obvious That This Was The Now The End Of The Night. There Was No Need For Anyone To Prolong the Event. At This Moment The Security Detail Emerged From Behind The Wallpaper & Begun To Escort Them Homewards.

Soon All These Mouldy Old Soul Sellouts Would Be Back In Their Spacious Tax-Exempt Palaces. All To Their Different But Equally Palatial, ‘Quadrupilly Gated Community’ Dwellings.

Macronck Took The Last Moment To Say A Closing Remark. He Was Little in Stature But So Good At Appearing Like An Alpha Male – He Had A Booming Deep Voice & Took Up A Lot Of Space. He Had His Legs Wide Apart & Crossed Arms When He Confidently Roared:

“While My Wife May Have Embarrassed Me Tonight – I Am Not Embarrassed By Your Commitment To The Cause – French Neo-National Socialism.

Now I’ll See You On Monday In Cabinet, To Put Final Plans In Motion”. We Will No Longer Be Beholden to The Riff-Raff of Society – For They Will Simply Cease To Exist. France Can Finally Return To Its Former Napoleonic Era Greatness.”

He Ended With His Per-usual Boastful, Emotive, & Flamboyant Version of What Can Only Be Described As A Partially Veiled “Heil Macroncke” Salute – Which Was Ceremoniously Returned In Kind By The Doting & Wobbling Henchmen & Henchwomen.

Exactly As they Always Did In These Clandestine Soirees & Closed-Door Meetings, As There Was No Need to Hide Themselves, Or their Intentions.

They & Their Security Detail All Went Out The Back Of the Little French Diner To Their Waiting Cars In Single File Fashion. Contentment Was Written All Over Their Hardened & Cold – But Very Focussed Countenances.

For They Knew The French Fourth Reich Was Re-Flowering, With Perfect Timing, Exactly As Planned.

This Would Also, Of Course – Lead to A Great War – The Last Few Decades of the Strategically Undeclared World War 4 Would Melt Away Into A Very Hot Declared World War 4.

The Little French Restaurant Was Now Closing Down, A Few Waiters & Waitresses Milled Around The Table, Tending To The Strewn Cacophony Of Knives, Forks, Spilled Wine & Various Body Fluids Of The Political Melee.

They Were Now All At Their Respective Homes – Soon to be In Bed. Their Respective Drunkenness Ensuring Any Wired-ness that Might Keep Them Also Sleepless, Was Defeated.

The Henchmen & Henchwomen Of The French Fourth Reich, Were All – Bar Macroncke Himself – Sleeping Soundly To The Distantly Soothing Pops & Whistles Of The Wild Street Violence. They Were More than Confidant Their Collective-Machiavellian-Artistic-Dream-Creations, Their Fascist-Twisted-Elitist-Hopes & Dreams, Were Coming To Fruition.

They All Knew Victory Would Begin In Only A Few Hours Away At Sun Up. They Would Reap What They Had Sown.

Macroncke However, Unlike The Others, Had At First His Usual Sleepless Night – Racked With The Thought That At Any Minute His Sneaky Dictatorship Would Be Finally Be Seen For What It Was – A House Of Cards – A False Utopia – The Chaotic Unescapable Maze He Secretly Knew It to Be.

Again, Like Clockwork, At 4 AM, He Took A Handful Of Sleeping Pills And Other Barbiturates From His Overstocked Pharmacy-Like Bathroom & Would Soon Fell Asleep. Before He Had Swallowed The Pills, He Saw That One Pill Looked Slightly Different – Just A Little Brighter Than The Others. He Thought Nothing Of It & Threw His Trembling Hand To His Mouth & Gulped Them Down.

His Mind Now Relaxed A Little. Tomorrow The World Would Begin To Change Seismically – Not In Years, But As The Clock’s Second Hand Ticks. He Smiled Assuredly As He Climbed Back Into Bed, Next To the Fast Asleep Prunella & Then Closed his Eyes.

Just Before Nodding Off, A Final Thought Popped Into His Now Barely Conscious Mind. It Was A Pathetic, But None-The-Less Soothing Rationalisation:

“Well At Least I Can Stretch Out The Decline Of My Empire Long Enough to Create Maximum Carnage in Minimal Time – & I’ll Never Let Them Catch Me Alive Anyway – And If I Plan things Well, I’ll Escape the Hangman Via The Modern ‘Ratlines’ To Brazil, Argentina, Or Perhaps Even The Now Clandestinely Fascist New Zealand or Australia”

But he did awake at around 6 am, in a cold sweat. His nightmare was that he went into work & no one saw him at all – he was invisible & nothing he could do – shout & stomp as he may could garner even the lifting of the corner of a Frenchman’s lips, on top of that he also found no reference to himself in the pages of history.

The nightmare always ended the same way – i.e. the precursor to him waking up in a cold sweat with heart thumping. The only thing that would notice him in these nightmares was a diffuse shadow which implanted via telepathy a direct message in his mind:

“I granted your wishes – I made you one of the biggest Kings of the Earth. I gave you riches, fame & power, and insulation from the ‘Downtrodden Masses’ rightful ire. Now is time for you to repay me. I want your soul Macroncke – as small & shrivelled as it is – I want what you bargained for. I want your soul to put with all the others, to torture for all eternity.”

Macroncke was glad to awake & see himself in the bedside cabinets mirror. As always, he was happy to have his wife see his distress & hug & console him. To experience the relief that he was not in hell & was not being punished for his more-than-misdemeanours.

Prunella said “let’s get back to sleep – you have a big day tomorrow with the media” – she removed her motherly finger combing hand from his hair – they were both more than surprised to see that maggots were crawling all over her hand, having already eaten the flesh off her ring finger.

As Macronke’s Vision Faded To Black – He Knew The “French Fourth Reich” Was Now Over Before It Had Truly Began, & Any Thoughts Of An Easy Escape Were Now Being Roundly Busted. He Slipped Alone Downwards Into A Blacker Than Black Final Spiral Towards His Final Resting Place.

The End.

“PapWars” (A Poem)

Wow It’s Been A Week Since The Last Post

And I’m Not Talking About World War One

That Was More Than A Century Ago

I Didn’t Attend That Soiree

But I Hear It Was A Real Blast

But Enough About War & All It’s Gore

Let’s Talk About Happy Things

I’m Sorry I Must Be Slipping

Happy things Aren’t Interesting

Unless Of Course, It’s “Twisted Happy Things”

Like An Alcoholic Who Has No Cash

& is Going Crazy & Has No Beer

And Has Had None For 3 Days

And Then He Moves The Couch Over A Little

And Finds A Solitary Beer Underneath It

He Notices the Glint Of The Beer Can

& A Twisted Happiness Rolls Across

His Shabby Mug

That’s The Kind Of Happiness I Like To Write About

I’ll Leave The Rich Upper- Middleclass

Who Do Not Know Struggle Or Poverty

to Write About The Dull Meaningless Kinds Of Fake Happiness

That they Are So Addicted To Crapping Out

They Write Stuff Like This

“Oh Steven! I Can’t Believe How Lucky You Were

To Win That Free BMW At The Club Yesterday – Oh Joy”

The Reason That Pap gets Published Is The Boring

And the Rich Are Too Well Networked

To The “Gatekeepers” – Their Friends Who Also

Do Not Know Struggle Or Poverty Either

& Thus Want To Publish That Pap

Give Me “Bukowski” Like Writing Any Day!

Yes He Was A jerk So I Hear

But He Wrote Of Toil & Desperation

The Stuff About 90% Of us See Every Day

But It Is Almost Never Celebrated Or Described.

The Pap Peddlers Of The Mainstream Press

Make It Their Job To Post Their Rich Friends Pap

“Wendy, I Thought You Remembered We Were Going

Out Dancing Tonight – How Could You Forget My Birthday”

Dear Oh Dear Oh Dear Oh Dear

I Have A Good Term For This Kind Of Writing, & Mass Publishing

I Call It “PapWars”

Stay Right Away From It.

Papwars Will End Up Killing Us All.