by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com
The World Waiter will serve you shit sandwiches.
Then tell you it’s caviar.
When you scream:
“Can’t you see that’s shit between bread???”
The World Waiter will say:
“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you...Workers….
He bends over backwards for you…you.. ungratefuls……
Now eat your effing caviar you…you…WORKER YOU!”
And then if you say:
“And what will you do if I refuse to eat this shit sandwich World Waiter sir?”
They will say:
“We will make sure you cannot work yourself to death…er I mean are employed in our work camps….er I mean Work tables…
..We will conspire amongst ourselves to ban you from slavery..er Work.. & you will die in a ditch!…
You’ll get no shit sandwhiches…I mean you’ll get no delicious caviar… you..you…Worker swine! – you’ll starve fool!!!”.
You think for a minute – soaking it all in.
You know those workers who refused to toe the line.
Those ones under the bridges.
Those starving ones.
Those ones wearing threadbare rags.
Those ones all The Workers like you are afraid to one day become.
Those ones who couldn’t play anymore or were kicked off the sick game on offer .
Those ones who saw the shit sandwhiches as shit sandwhiches.
You make a decision & bite down hard on the shit sandwhich, its contents oozing down you chin.
You look up merrily & say to the impatient & now fuming World Waiter:
“My word this caviar is delightful!.. This is the best shit sandwhich.. er I mean caviar, I’ve ever tasted…so juicy! Give my regards to the glorious & bent over chef”.
The World Waiter now placated half smiles & slowly dissapears to the next Worker Table.
You think to yourself.
“I swear this shit sandwhich is starting to taste like caviar”.
You suddenly feel ashamed, for you think you know what’s happening.
Your cowardly thoughts somehow soothe your confortably re-battered soul.
The thought goes on:
“Oh well, at least I’ll be retiring from this Work Table in fifteen years.
It’s not that long – I’ve been here twice that time anyway!…
…and then I’ll be able to have all this shit tasting caviar without even having to sit at a Work Table”.
As you feel less fearful that you’ll end up like “The Others”, you hear the The World Waiter from accross the room.
“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you..Workers….”.
As you finish your last bite, you feel a twinge on cameraderie wash over you.
“Ah..so this is what it feels like to be truly alive, among colleagues, well fed, with a roof over my head…and sitting at this highly polished Worker Table….Long life the glorious World Waiter & The bent-over Chef!….I am so lucky! Lucky-Lucky-Lucky!”
But then you find yourself in the midst of a sudden involuntary “GULP”.
You know somethings up – but for the life of you,
You can’t quite figure out what it is.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 