Tag: short story

“Tim Teeter’s Trip To Rigel”. (A Poem)

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By Martin Anton Smith.

Tim Teeter’s problems were not at all anodyne – they were explosive.

And yet all his attempts to fix them were largely sclerotic.

Yes, he would try to apply a poultice to his wounded life,

But he only ended up surfing the sulkiness laced silence.

Tim’s one man think tank came up only with blank faced recommendations.

So, he was stuck like a light beam spiralling a event horizon boundary.

Tim’s existence was a kind of ‘Peregrinations in Purgatory’.

Yes, his life was indeed Kafka-esque but unfortunately it was also Phillip K. Dick-esque like too.

Things were deteriorating So quickly,

His hopes of improving to become Asimov-esque – that is stable & predictable,

Were now like seeing a distant flicker of candlelight-

Held up by a very rich man standing on the surface Proxima -b in the Alpha Centuri system.

But then Tim had an idea to fix it all – sure it was a long shot but worth a try.

He looked over to a Betelgeuse like pile of coats in the corner of his room.

He took a run up & slid under the coats finding himself on the bottom of it.

He felt a sense of calm come over him – he was insulated from the real world.

Then he felt a hard-edged rub against his hand.

He found a book in one of the coat pockets.

He took it out & looked at the cover.

“A Trip to Rigel’s Via Orian’s Belt” by Tim Teeter”

The front image was of a giant blue star with an approaching spacecraft.

“Hey that guy has the same name as me”, Tim thought.

Tim turned to the back cover – and there it was.

A picture of himself, perhaps twenty years in the future as a sixty-year-old.

Tim’s fears instantly disappeared.

He knew he’d be ok & his problems were only temporary.

The joke was on him, for the real Tim Teeter of the book did look like him,

But definitely wasn’t him & definitely wasn’t from the future.

Tim’s life was destined to stay a even mix of Kafka & Phillip Dick esque.

But at least his anxiety was assuaged until tomorrow,

When he would read the publisher details page.

That night under the coats was Tim’s best night sleep ever.

Well, apart for a small nightmare early on –

Where Tim found himself as an unemployed & depressed praying mantis,

Staging an elaborate break in to his own flat,

& then reporting it to disinterested police officer.

“The Lament Of The Hospitable” (A Short Story)

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by Martin Anton Smith

It had been a hard year for me & the other Hospo P.O.W’s. – just like all of us everywhere, and throughout time who know our gladiator’s game.

It was now almost all over, bar the work-day today, & then our staff party would go down. The coffees that day had flown out the door – some literally as was this particular cafe-restaurant’s tradition on its last day of the year.

And as always – what an uneventfully eventful year it had been. The wine glasses had been polished & repolished a million times. Sixty-five million crumbs had fallen off our seventeen swanky restaurant & thirty-one cafe dining tables. One thousand & fifteen raised voices had broken out. One hundred & eighty-five ‘Customer to Staff Chastisations’ or as the boss called them ‘CSC’s’ had appeared – this was when bad tempered customers went off at us verbally. That said, that was a relatively low number & due to our professionalism, only in 3 instances had things gone in the other direction – a staff verbally berating a customer. We low paid customer service oiks had on the whole expert emotional control.

Now let me continue with numbers. Ninety-three plates & two-hundred & three glasses had been destroyed. Nine-thousand mains had been served; sixteen-thousand snacks menu items & one-hundred & fifty-one-thousand alcoholic vessels served. The head chef Nicole had only ‘beaten up’ the sous chef Tim just once this year – though like all Chefs the bark was always worse than the bite, which she actually did once – at least so the legend went. There were two hundred & forty five hours of overtime issued.

Unofficially It was rumoured there were three instances of inter-staff bathroom coitus events. And for all the numbers, only two staffers had quit. Yes, there had been the usual staff competitiveness, but no more than you’re usual ‘hospo’ joint. In short, banter was good, banter was had, banter was enjoyed.

In the pressure cooker world of hospo, you had to be able to give shit, receive it & then throw it back out the window. We were all good at that. We had to be. The wages had of course been shit, but we modern day downtrodden P.O.W slash serfs can’t ask for more – after all – why would we waste our time? This kind of profession allows for only a meagre existence, & pay rises are as rare as hens teeth with an extra row of mini hen’s teeth sprouting on them.

These are the brute facts of our battle conditions. No – we don’t want sympathy, but we want people to know our plight. As they say – a little knowledge gos a long way.

Our serf’s profit comes not from cash but from experiences – from our exuberant social lives – & it’s been this way for millennia. Yes, sometimes it’s all too wild, namely the late nights, the substances & the hangovers – but we’ll all stop when we’re all thirty five & retired from the frontline battlegrounds anyway.

And so back to the story – the after party for us was set be as they say ‘a real cracker’.

We didn’t have much to look forward to in general, but we always looked forward to this kind of thing – our premier staff party night. We would use it to blow out the demons of the last year, & welcome the new ones coming, & usually these things became unofficial farewells too, given the nature of turnover in the industry. It was the same at every year end staff party everywhere in every cafe pub restarant or club in the world.

Our Owner-Manager boss Gavin allowed us limitless free alcohol & a day off the next day – I mean what could go wrong with that scenario? Our wealthy sometimes-a-gentleman owner at the very least made sure he treated us well on this day, once a year.

Yes, it was to be our day in the sun & no one had yet taken it away from us – if they did it would be true sacrilidge, & that’s no exaggeration.

The longest shift of the year was always the last shift, before the party. The anticipation of it was laced in the air as we plied our trade washing dishes, serving vacant looking over-tired customers, frothing cofees, flipping steaks and setting tables.

The clock finally struck ten pm, & we all finally finished for the day, having kicked the last of the dangling hanger on big drinker customers out. Yes siree! It was Party time for us serfs & P.O.W’s! We the modern downtrodden could rise up for a few glorious hours of merriment!

We filed in to the main restaurant tables filled with overflowing booze @ snacks. We chatted snacked & talked of the year & how fast it had evaporated before our eyes. The great thing about War and or crap jobs like ours – for aren’t they versions of each other? – is always the camaraderie. Every slogger or digger knows, you can’t get the same camaraderie outside shit jobs or War itself.

After only a couple of drinks each, Gavin soon piped up with his ‘yearly owner-manager speech’.

Gavin was about sixty, businessmen plump, bald with pug-like features, always immaculately dressed. As always, he coughed a few times to clear his throat. This made him seem like an old English lord so we called him Lord Gavin, behind his back of course. And so the Lord himself began began his words.

“Well staff, I’d like to thank you all for a great great, record breaking year –

I won’t tell you what our sales were –

For then you’d surely ask for a pay rise”

We all half laughed, but we were sighing on the inside – being low on the social totem pole, we all had very fraught financial lives. We were definitely what you might call hand to mouthers.

But we were all young, so our delusions of the future kept our minds afloat. Some of of still believed they’d get rich one day.

Gavin continued on, his chrome dome was as usual glistening with minor nerve sweat.

“We’ve had three new employees this year & oh how a delight they’re all been….

We’ve managed a small renovation in the Restaurant….

Yes, it looks great & thanks to tilly for mounting that beautiful ornamental lampshade….”

Tilly blushed a scarlet color, not that you’d know with the lighting so low.

Gavin continued, taking a hanky out to wipe his forehead.

“We sold ten percent more wine this year….

That was thanks to Greg our micro brewer, & his tasty new brew…

Ah Greg a great Ale – but why, I wonder did you called it Sucker Time Ale?…

Still – they buy it at fifteen ninety a Pint don’t they?!”

Greg one of the older ones at thirty seven, doubled over himself slapping his legs.

Greg our 5-foot, 55 kg micro brewer then piped up confidently:

“Well, I wanted a play on words of that favourite saying –

‘there’s a sucker born every minute’ so Sucker Time Ale seemed a great name”

All us workers laughed roaringly – because we knew how our alcohol prices were & partly because we knew we were suckers too.

Gavin kept it short & said his last words of the opening act.

“And so to all staff, I’d love to thank you – we couldn’t be here without you –

Beers don’t pour themselves…

Steaks don’t cook themselves…

Plates don’t wash themselves…

Tables don’t clean themselves…

Customers don’t serve themselves…

& until the Muskobite AI Hospo Robot 1000 that I pre-ordered arrives in 2032 – all that won’t change at all!”

Gavin said the last line quite theatrically but his timing was a little laboured, & his voice squeaked a little at the end. But all in all it wasn’t bad. We still all laughed heartilly – mostly at him, but partly with him. Despite his flaws, Lord Gavin could be funny at times. I’ll give him that.

The next five hours was a blur of alcohol & ratcheting upwards, drunken raucius conversations & frivolity. It was all pretty stock standard stuff:

At some point people started dancing on tables. At some point a female started crying over a relationship matter. Someone broke a tray of steamed glasses. There were a few pashings & gropes. . .& why not? After all, Pashing & Gropes make the best Gin & tonic – do they not?

Then midnight arrived with the swiftness of a hungry cheetah. Now would come the wild fun of our traditional years end party game – all the staff excluding top level managers played “Musical Chairs”. They those hoity toity’s, though they were few & far between would always stand by the walls staring at us like vampires. This year the only one other than Gavin was Leonard – Gavin’s long term, loyal, & very praying-mantis-looking blond youngish middle-aged accountant.

Gavin was about to push play on the music for musical chairs when he was interrupted. Leonard with giant loping strides had wandered over, out from his vampiric wallflower spot. Yes, he was looking grim – but then again, he always looked grim, so I & the others weren’t yet worried. We should have been.

Leonard, crane-like leaned over & whispered in Gavins Ear. This was when we all started to worry & mutter to each other that something was probably up. It now had that air to it. We didn’t know it, but Leonard & Gavin’s conversation had gone down like this, all done with mostly inaudible whispers:

“Sorry Gavin, I was to tell you this earlier – sorry but I got held up with the exact figures”.

“Figures Lenny, what figures – I thought we’d sorted the figures & all was great?”

“Well, Gavin I made an error – I forgot about an important expense – that bloody fancy lampshade”.

“What? The $1000 dollar lampshade – that imported thing – what about it?”

“Well, I accidentally bought the diamond lampshade instead of the faux diamond one – it’s worth $30,000 & that’s what was deducted from our account”.

Gavin’s face went from alcoholic red to pale that of a typical grey alien.

“So Leonard what the fuck exactly, are you telling me?”

“Well, we can’t get a refund as the Italian company’s gone under & we can’t resell that lampshade easily – but I’ve got a quick nasty solution…”

“Damn you Leonard…what is it then..come on, tell me!!”

“So…if we fire one staff member for a year, we’ll all be square”.

“But Leonard you moron – who will do the fired one’s work?”

“Easy just get the remaining ones to all work seven percent harder – y’know – ‘spread the load’ “.

Gavin’s mind ticked over. The pools of sweat continued to drip & hit the growing sweat puddle on the floor between his fancy shoes. He couldn’t fire Leonard – that would cost him ten times as much. Knowing that, he made a quick exec decision. He thanked Leonard shooed him away with his hand. He now stood bolt upright & addressed us now nervously waiting ashen faced plebs. Our drunkenness & smiles had worn off entirely. Despite his now military posture, he spoke gingerly. Sweat still pouring off his dome but now going down his chin to be absorbed by his crisp white shirt.

“Er…ahh..ok…sorry about that staff – nothing’s the matter really other that one small thing. We have an error in our sales bookkeeping from the last financial year….look I won’t bore you with details….and I hate to tell you this under these circumstances…but the long & short of it is one of you have to go”.

There were gasps all around, murmurs & a few cries. We couldn’t believe it. Even though we were all still all young to youngish, we were all well too life wounded already to fight against it. Also we all knew each of us had a less than 10% chance of being the unlucky one.

Gavin then cheerily said something even we young old timers were surprised at.

“Now let’s get back to our Musical chairs – only this time instead it has real stakes…the first one to not get a chair will lose their job immediately, and then get $500 severance pay”.

The stunned mullet-ness hang in the air for what seemed like forever. I looked over at Sally, she was overweight she was crying lightly – she knew she might not get a chair. I looked over at Craig – he had a gammy leg & now a deep frown – he knew he might not get a chair. I looked over at Tilly – she was tiny & easy bumped away – she was sobbing – she might not get a chair. Everyone else also looked nervous despite no obvious disability or impairments – they all knew they all had a chance to be the one fired.

Of course we could have mass protested. But no one piped up. We all had learnt to be helpless, like the twenty first century serfs we deep down knew we were. Then sometime welled up inside me. A feeling of courage. I had never had much of it – it was an intoxicating feeling.

Gavin pushed play on the music button – it was the music was Wagner. We all walked around the chairs, circling like buzzards, sobbing & wailing, shoulders drooped, barely lifting our feet above the ground. We were like POW’s on a long march.

Finally, the bombastic Wagnerian music used during ‘The Third Reich’ stopped. Gavin’s index finger had spoken, his wiggly fat faux sword of Damocles had come down on us. Everyone scrambled to the seats like mad men & mad women. But I didn’t go for a seat at all – I simply kept walking, cool as a cucumber straight towards the exit door about a full ten paces away.

While those long paces counted down, I felt good. The feeling of self-sacrifice for the betterhood of my community was like an elixir. I knew that now my mental & spiritual deadwood would be sliced off, removed, & then a gracious metamorphosis would begin. I would suddenly unlearn my learned helplessness. I knew in that heated emotional hurricane that I’d never see these people or this town again – I’d make sure of that. I told myself that while my heart was beating like a thudding bass drum.

As I was one pace from the door, there was only one more thing to do. I turned around & looked at Lord Gavin & said without pointing & with confidant, measured, & gravitas infused words:

“Fuck you Gavin you tinpot fake Hitler Fuckwit”

Then I turned my head toward the door to traverse the last step to exit – then I turned my head back towards them again – I’d forgitten to ear bash Leonard too.

“Fuck you too Leonard – I know your a snakey prick!”.

Leonard guiltily averted my eyes & stared at his shoes for all his status he was now a naught little schoolboy being told off by the rightfully mad teacher.

I was glad I hadn’t let Leonard off the hook – those sneaky political types love to hide in the shadows, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

I took the last step opened the door & then slammed it with all my animalistic fury…it made a dirty great

BANG!!!

Sure, with my “big exit” I had sacrificed some decorum – but equally It’s always wise to add a little truth- laden-spices to the mix of work life. That slammed door was maybe the most loudly slammed door in History. Yes, dear reader – I went out with a bang, as every self-respecting POW should. I’ll hang my hat on a heavily slammed door any day of the week.

I’d like to say that after swearing & slamming that door my life changed immeasurably & I rose up the social ladder, became rich, flew out to a new town, got married to a catch & even had two point one kids. I’d like to report that.

I’d like to report that I finally threw of the shackles of all that learned helplessness & modern-day serfdom away – i’d like to report that too. Unfortunately this is the real world & not a crap hollwood movie. So that good stuff didn’t happen – I just found a new restaurant & a new ‘Gavin’, a new Leonard & a new ‘crew’ of fellow POW’s slash modern day serfs in a nearby town. I dug in like the seasoned profesional serf-soldier I was.

Of course, I knew that after a honeymoon period the same kind of crap stuff as before would happen again. It would be simply be a slightly rehashed version of what was. I had come to realise that ‘modern serfdom’ is for most a permanent affliction. it comes with deaths & rebirths akin to a life lived in a series of parallel universes.

So yes, I am at peace with my serfdom.

They do say a change is as good as a holiday – & at least us modern day serfs & hospo staff are still allowed to cut, run & restart. I think it’s fair – all we ask for is to die & be reborn & steal a few laughs & maybe a few drinks along the way. We are too battle-hardened & so realistic, to expect anything more.

Eventually, given enough years – we even grow to love the Lord Gavin’s & Leonard’s of our world. Yes, the Gavin’s & Leonard’s of the world will always take things away from us with one hand, but we also always knew they’d first give us something with the other first.

Life, you see – is all about having correct expectations & knowing when to walk & when to stay. Get that right & no one can touch you.

For ours is a modern-day serf’s story – a Hospo P.O.W’s lament.

Some of us are even smart enough to write about it all when we are finally out of the game. A much smaller slice some of you, are even more smart to actually read it.

And for that , we thank you – it’s nice to be heard.

The End.

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

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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

“The Speech” (A Short Story)

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by Martin Anton Smith

The other day I went & listened to an anonymous someone.

Beamed in from somewhere & someplace.

For it was a blue plasma ball that snapped into human form –

Right before our incredulous eyes.

Yes, it was quite the speech.

As I listened I had the thought:

“Were they wise or just mad?” –

Alas as to which one I still cannot be so sure.

But I can at least tell you his words verbatim,

For I recorded them while I listened along with everyone.

Something told me this is what I should do.

.They went as follows…….

Greetings oh people of the past,

Forgive me this interruption –

But the exigencies of your situation have forced my hand.

Your blindness has conjured my departure from my time.

For I came from a time where perfidious petty battles have been long since mastered.

We roundly squabed our decks free of your current squabbles, to use ye olde maritime lingo.

I must bust you out of your wide-awake sleep-dreams.

My goal is to have you reconfigured – renatured if you will.

And so my message can begin.

“Hell is other people”?.

Hell. Is. Other People.

This my friends & adversaries in the gallery, this is perhaps the most true statement ever.

Far truer than Paine’s “These are the times that try men’s souls”

More propitious than Patrick Henry’s “Give me liberty or death..”

And robustly in line with Bukowski’s maxim about spiritual death before actual death of the everyman.

Yes, you may be surprised to know that in the future we value Bukowski right next to Paine.

And so, we must thank Jean Paul Satre for coining the term “Hell is other people”.

According to your own words:

Humans have apparently been ‘civilised’ for a long time.

So, some of your Anthropologists say.

But of course, even your Geologist’s & Physicists would gaffaw at this statement.

For is Is ten thousand years a long time?

Not really.

You think this way because you cranial Lilliputians still think time “flows”.

You think the future is burped from the past,

And its quality determined by whether the menu had Spaghetti or Steak.

But I digress.

Back to the topic of civility.

Yes, ladies & gents – the experience of your life life tells you civility is a rare cultural ore.

Perhaps even as rare as Tritium 3.

Although incidentily this is not rare where, I mean when I come from – we harvest it freely from the moon.

Statistically we are lucky if perhaps 1% of your current Humanity is civilised.

But the number is of course much much lower.

Now as the 20th Century Americans liked to say

“let’s now have a Pop Quiz:

Were you teachers civilised?

No they were lazy bufoons, desperately afraid of the real world.

Were your parents civilised

No – they worked at jobs they hated.

Were your friends civilised?

No they wanted you to get nowhere in life – just like them.

Were your workmates civilised?

No they were on the modern day slavery hamster wheel & didn’t even know it!

Sorry pals – your early 21st Century indubitably not civilised, at least beyond a wafer thin veneer.

We in the future define basic civility broadly as this:

“Those non-roboticised or non-cyborg-ised human beings who on the whole are in control of their emotions, & not the reverse. Those who work to improve the welbeing humankind”.

Oh I see a few raised eyebrows – yes sorry to let you know of this but in the future the Robots & Cyborgs have the numbers over the humans.

I don’t think I’ll get in trouble for confirming that – after all you people are already half way there nowadays.

On the subject of 21st Century Civility, we notice there are many false alters.

Your leaders need to know that Civility is not really anything to do with advancing technology.

For the caveman simply had less shoulders to stand on than Dirac or Ford or the Wrights or Gates, Jobs or Musk.

If I can talk like one of you let me summarise this by saying:

What good is it if a man knows the secrets of the universe but is a social ogre out to destroy?

Perhaps he knows so much he plug into “free zero point energy” or spaceship to “Zeta Reticuli”.

Yet no one can stand to sit with him in a room for more than 1 to the minus 34 femtoseconds.

Oh dear – another cat is out of the bag! – Yes you have people harvesting free energy & travelling the cosmos.

That was the next project after Los Alamos – held in secret from the public.

I ask all of you people here – Is man in the 21st Century really civilised?

Were the men who worked on the ‘Manhatten Project’ civilised?

There is a clear argument against this despite the accolades, they were the reverse of civility.

Boldly our view in the future is this – this passage is written on a monument to your era:

The men of Los Alamos rode their low EQ all the way to the gates of hell,

Jumped over those gates unannounced,

Shook hands with the Devil & proclaimed:

“Our leader we have done your bidding & created the Hell Weapon”

To which the evil one could have replied

“I am happy with your anti civilisation you are all my fat men & little boys,

you have followed my will perfectly”.

Mmm hmm, that’s right, yes my 21st Century sir & maddam – you usually confuse status with goodness & decency.

We in the future cannot understand you adoration of unneccesary social hierarchies.

These Los Alamos types are the anti-lords of earth & you blessedly boost them in the echo chambers,

By medallion bearing Machiavellian monsters all riding the optic fibers & satellite feeds.

So the wielding of High tech & high tech weaponry & social climbing is not proof of your ‘Civilisation’.

But the garden variety of Human Un-civilisation is galactically even more common.

And excuse me if I again adopt 21st Century lingo.

The guy that loses his sh*t at the cashiers coz he hates his job, that’s uncivilised;

The Karen that rings the cops on a neighbour, thats uncivilised;

The office narc who engineers someone out of their job, that’s uncivilised;

The bogan who kicks his dog because he can, that’s uncivilised;

This is the walled garden of your un-civilisation – the wild flowers of 21st Century discontented daily life.

I contend you 21st-ers (that’s what we call you) are at best like the contradiction of the nuclear power plant –

one part alien technology & one part steam age,

For it is simply Einstein’s brain crystallised by the equation e – mc squared,

Strapped on to an essentially 19th century steam turbine,

Which turns a coil on a axl around a magnetic housing so to make electricty for us all.

I think your Homo Sapian brains are just the same –

Your best human brains are still as a ‘Einstein strapped to a Lizard’.

And that is the core problem – BOTH your Einstein AND the Lizard brain need to be tamed.

Tamed to be civilised.

Tamed to be civilised.

Tamed to be civilised.

I said that three times for effect – for you people don’t understand your ally cat wild-ness.

For all your anthropological, Physic-o-Technical, Spiritual & Artistic efforts have so far failed.

That rogue Einsteinian Lizard in your brains, is the eternal monkey on your back.

And so you yet remain uncivilised in according to your media – the very futuristic sounding year, of twenty twenty four.

And in closing, let me regale you a tale.

This is a popular tale from 21st Century, written by one of your own only one year ago.

It goes as follows:

I was one day walking along the riverbank,

& I saw something from the corner of my mind’s eye.

It was a shining resplendent floating dictionary,

I believe it fell from an angel’s pocket.

Anxious to know what they thought of us, I flicked to the word.

Humans (n). Mostly Uncivilised bipeds of Planet Earth holding poorly designed bootstrapped brains. Prone to emotional outbursts & non logical reasoning. Live in an oasis of plenty yet choose to hide under rocks. Biggest ritual is to sling their own shit at each other while screeching loudly. Slated by the Galactic Council to soon to be totally reconfigured as to be totally unrecognisable from their present state.

I felt warm inside as I thought to myself “See I was right after all”.

I went & ate a sandwich & drank a coffee at the cafe, feeling mighty proud of myself.

I sat & waited for something to happen.

I got bored & went home & cracked open a beer.

I sat & waited for something to happen.

Nothing happened.

I cracked open another beer.

I waited

…nothing happened

I cracked open another beer.

I was now 3 am.

I looked around for the angel’s dictionary.

I couldn’t find it anywhere.

I’m such a dolt –

Why didn’t I look up the angels definition of ‘soon’?.

As I’ve always said.

If you’re going to be wiped out, it’s nice to know when.

Oh well, what can you do?

I cracked open another beer & drifted asleep.

I don’t know if it was part of the dream or not but an angel floated in the room.

It said nothing & simply reached under my seat,

I heard the rattle some empty cans being moved out of the way.

‘Aha there it is’ I telepathically heard the angel say.

I saw it float towards the door.

“Wait” I said.

The angel turned around.

“What is it?”

“When will it all happen” I said strangely confidently.

“When all your beer tastes sour, it will be so” said the angel.

I nonchalantly took a swig & replied.

“I knew you’d screw me around with an answer I couldn’t rely on”

“What – you think we’d tell you guys what’s going on? You’re far too uncivilised for that!”.

“Fair call” I said & cracked open another beer & watched it dissipate like steam.

I know what you’re thinking.

“Was the beer sour?”

Well why would I tell you that?. . .after all it’s a stupid question.

I mean, are you still uncivilised poop flinging screecher-er?

Of course you are!

It was then we saw the man from the future return to his blue orb state & shoot off into nothingness. All at the meeting thought it was a great performance. We all wondered which amateur dramatics troop was responsible. We loved the special effects – both the blue orb & his holographic appearance. We couldn’t allow ourselves to publicly think otherwise. But at least I recorded it – for future posterity.

The End

“Blocked Out & Stuck In” (A Short Story).

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by Martin Anton Smith

Joe thought of a few lines of prose to describe how he felt – he wrote the following:

“A one-inch-tall man who lives inside a ten-inch-tall glass jar, shouldn’t be surprised when no matter how fast he moves or jumps – that he remains inside the glass jar. But even worse off, are the many many people next to him, that all insist the glass isn’t even there.”

He was happy with that description. He often wrote a few words down as an escape from his far-too- ordinary life.

He was now in early middle aged, & he had had it up to the neck with everything – a large subset of that being the townsfolk.

Specifically, he was sick of their culture of avoidance. But really it was more passively violent than that -it was more like a pandemic of avoidance.

In this two-bit-town – Just like the Roman empire times – these plagues came in waves or differing intensities.

There was the plague of dilapidated housing. The plague of unemployment. There was the plague of depression. There was the plague of self-harm. There was the plague of alcoholism. There were many other subsidiary plagues to all the above.

These plagues were never routed out they were only papered over, leading to an environment where the townsfolk had to emotionally & financially fend for themselves.

Joe was more than sick of all this general ‘sweeping under the carpet’ – he was especially annoyed at the biggest singular problem – which was an idea, an idea that was replicated to all others in town – a mind virus if you will.

This mind virus Joe was always thinking of, was about the fact they all lived behind a giant dome of inpenitrable glass. It was like a giant upturned glass tumbler, plopped over the small town. No one could get in or out – they were trapped. And everyone in the town avoided questioning anything about it – this is becasue to them it didn’t exist.

This created a permanent mental blindness. Of this matter the townsfolk had blocked it out entirely. The realisation of this real-life domed prison wasn’t even a concept that existed their conscious minds.

You see – the brain is a funny thing – anything that’s really really bad the brain will decide to hide from you. It will hide the badness deeply in the subconsciousness & will even create hallucinations to stop any contradictions appearing in your conscious thoughts. These hallucinations weave a more psychologically palatable fairy tale.

But for some unknown reason Joe wasn’t at that same ‘advanced mental trickery’ stage that all the townsfolk suffered from – he could still actually see the glass, the domed prison that was all their lives.

After stewing away thinking about all this, he put down his pen & paper & told himself tomorrow morning he would march to the glass boundary & make a big scene – big enough to attract a lot of attention. He’d attract a swarm of interested townsfolk. He’d act to try to snap the townsfolk out of their collective mind virus.

He didn’t sleep soundly that night – he tossed turned & even had to get up to drink a few beers. While he was up, he fought with his own mind – one moment he was steadfast – the next a quitter. After three beers he was finally groggy enough to fall asleep on his couch.

He awoke fully clothed & with an empty half-crushed beer can still in his hand. He went to the empty cupboards & found some half mouldy bread slices – he stuffed one in his mouth. Feeling parched, he went to the sink. He ran the water & drank straight from the tap. He did that all the time.

He saw a priorly forgotten old & shrivelled apple on the outskirts of the kitchen bench – he gulped that down whole, including the stalk. He put the heavily father-time marked metal kettle on the stove – it soon whistled its off-key half broken tune.

He poured himself a black instant coffee & sipped away at it while staring out his kitchen window. The thoughts began.

“What the hell am I doing with my life? How did I get into this crappy situation?”

“Why can’t I just be a zombie just like everyone else?”

“Why can’t I just pretend to be happy just like everyone else?”

“What the hell happened to the last twenty-five years?”

“Things were going great till I was twenty-five – then the world attacked with its full fury”

“Was it just that personal failings slowly accumulated as I aged? – or was I just blind & insulated to the worlds innate we-will-get-you-in-the-end-prison-ness?”

Joe had been asking himself the exact same questions at the same time, while having black coffee & staring out the window every morning for the last fifteen years. He finished the last half of his coffee with a final slug.

But the last thought this time was more original – he knew much of his & the other townsfolk’s reality of being stuck in a rut was due to the osmosis of living in this town. he resolved to change things, He’d ‘shake up the box’ with the hope taht a new pattern would emerge. He would do it, he would be strong & try to make something happen to pry the towns long super-glued eyes open.

He marched out of the door, leaving it open as he left…his stride was that of a new first day military recruit – his clothes were of course displaying the wear & tear of his being a long term workman.

He walked for the full fifteen minutes to a section of the towns glass boundary. Sweat was running off his brow & the other bodily sweat was making his top visibly wet.

The townsfolk had noticed his stridency & focus and a small mob was now trailing behind him – following him in avid interest but being sure to be a few safe feet behind. The all muttered amoung themselves their separate but also related theories.

“He’s been drinking again while on his anti-depressants”.

“Nah…He’s broken up with his on-again-off-again mrs Joanie Phelps again”.

“You fools – He’s finally decided he can’t handle that shitty ditch digging job of his”.

“You know it could be all of the above you know”, said the town know-it-all.

Joe reached the destination put his hands up on the dome forward & part outstretched – like someone would on a large lodge window that was overseeing a fantastic wooded view. He half turned his head & shouted at the crowd mobbed together behind him.

They crowd of townsfolk stood like small children who were awaiting the instructions from a bad -tempered & frazzled school teacher.

Joe spoke up, his voice part quivering yet firm & with a certain robustness.

“Hey you idiots can’t you see the glass imprisoning us – the glass that’s been here forever?”

This verbal attack put more than a few of the mobs backs up.

“That’s just a gravitational effect you fool – there’s nothing the matter”.

Said one of the much older males.

The others all chimed in in agreement with jeers aplenty – someone even threw a shoe that missed the mark then bounced off the dome glass wall & hit the turf.

But Joe – the man who could now see it all in perfect clarity, decided to continue to prove his point – he wouldn’t back down despite the crowds now increasing excitement, animation & abuse.

The crowd didn’t affect sway his emotions one iota – he had always been an outsider, so what difference did it matter now? He had taken plenty of abuse & even the odd punch in the back of the head.

He doubled down on his message – this time using a physical persuasion technique. He started smashing his head rhythmically against the glass.

BANG…..BANG…..BANG…………….BANG…..BANG…..BANG………….BANG…..BANG…..BANG

So much was his vigour that blood started to flow down the glass. Of course, he & everyone else knew the six-inch tempered glass dome was never going to break. The bloody trickles actually made the crowds rising anger dissipate away – they now saw him as a madman & their anger morphed into fearfulness.

They again whispered & muttered amoung themselves.

“My word, that’s some might gravity contortions we’re having today”,

Said one lady, those in the crowd arounf her simply nodded in serious agreement.

Again the crowd chimed in their reality avoidant themed theories.

“Yeees yes, isn’t it terrible what weather conditions & condensed gravity can do when combined”.

“This effect is well documented in the library – the same thing happend back last century in ’29 & ’87”

One oddball said something that even sent a light chuckle aroung the group.

“I knew we would see some bad gravity field effects this year, I just knew it when my onions came up so late – not to mention me pumpkins were way way small!”

Joe heard all their typical & predictable explaining away of the smack-you-in-your-face-crap-reality before them. This time Joe felt the anger bubble inside as more gashes & blood spurts happened.

“Can’t you see that my fucking heads bleeding because it’s hitting this all-encompassing-monolithic-full-surround glass wall!!??….”

He continued.

“You guys are fucking addicted to your own fucking prisons!”

“So much so you deny it’s patently obvious reality!!!”

“Your tiny brains have tuned it out for decade upon decade!!!”

“This is not a fucking localised weather ot gravity effect!!!

“Can’t you see I’m bleeding because of these domed prison walls…”

“How can we ever escape this drudgery if we never admit to our shackles?”

He said in staccato fashion:

“We Are Trapped Behind A Massive Fucking Glass Jar That We Can’t Escape From,

It Traps Us In A Fifteen Minute Walking Radius, So We Have No Fucking Resources,

We Live Shit Lives As A Consequence And You All Have Brains That Have Buried This Fact,

Because If Your Brains Didn’t Do It You Might End It All…I’m Sick Of This!! Can’t You All See We Need to Escape!!!??

Every Last One Of Us….Why Are Will Agreeing To a Shit Life In A Shit Prison Not Of Our Design!!!???”

They all heard his words clearly – but Joe’s theatrics had garnered little support.

Joe’s idea of igniting a successful rebellion was over before it began.

He would be no latter-day Che Guevara.

The townsfolk having now seen more than enough of Joe’s breakdown, all made their particular excuses to leave.

“Uh…Look Joe I’ve gotta go & fix that fence I backed into the other day…good luck”.

“Sorry Joe – I gotta organise a babysitter for tonight, see ya later”.

“Look man, I have to go cook dinner my in laws are coming over, I’m sure you’ll be ok”.

“Joe – I gotta run, that old retro 1980’s show ‘unsolved mysteries is on the tablet, take care”.

“Joe my old hydro-car isn’t electrolyzing the water properly see ya later when you’re better”.

Joe heard all the excuses one by one & watched them all disappear off into the distance in single file.

They walked away just like normal – in stiffened fashion, all avoiding each other’s gazes, heads down & shoulders slumped. But inside themselves, Joe had actually had some effect on them. They were all worried one of them would crack & might take Joe’s uprising for what it actually was – the sudden appearance of the once well-hidden truth.

Each of them had moments where they saw this epiphany ever so briefly, but their well-controlled brains were working well against them.

As soon as the kernel of truth of the reality of their mass prison lives became apparent, it was again quickly shoved back into the realms of their unconsciousness’s. None of them could yet handle properly facing the reality that Joe was talking about.

The Truth was simply too damaging to address on a cellular level. They were now all out of sight, having gone back to their normal, simple, repressed lives.

Now he was fully alone, Joe slumped his head down along the glass in defeat. His bloody head making the characteristic ‘squeaky glass’ sound as he moved it around.

Having lost an the non-serious but still substantial amount of blood, he now felt woozy. Joe started to slump down the glass, hit the ground & then nodded off.

Seemingly days later he woke up. He looked at the date on his holo-watch – the green numbers floating above his wrist confirmed 48 hours had elapsed.

Now Joe then noticed he was now somehow on the other side of the glass. His circumstance reminded him of something he had read about in a physics book – the quantum tunneling effect. This is where a particle suddenly finds itself on the other side of a quantum well – even though it doesn’t theoretically have the energy to traverse it.

He looked at all the people on the other side going about their business, he saw the stooped shoulders, the lined faces, he saw the permanent downward trending mouths, he saw the clothes that were threadbare & stained, he saw the depressed gaits – the walking that almost screamed “get me outa here”.

he noticed that one man was seemingly moving a big mound of dirt with a digger to one end of a paddock, then he would move it back to the original spot, over & over again.

He got all his courage together & turned & faced the other side – the outside-the-dome side – he’d finally see & maybe feel what was out there.

He saw blackness, total blackness. It was as if this part of reality was “as yet unprogrammed”.

He took a step – suddenly a grey garden-like stepping stone emerged. He even felt a slight breeze on his face. He took another step & more stones appeaed & some light crept into view – some new reality was slowly generating itself as he moved ever more forward.

Just as he was feeling like he was about to walk to freedom…Joe started to have typical ‘small town’ doubts.

“What if in this new place I end up starving! – I mean my life back there is bad but I can at least eat!”

“Man O Man!….What if I’m going towards Hell! – maybe my town back behind the glass is actually a paradise – maybe paradise is still kinda unavoidably shitty!”

“Maybe I’m the idiot & the townsfolk are right – maybe they are just rightly avoiding Hell in the most simple & direct way – via positively functional delusions!”

Then he thought of the other possibility.

“Maybe I’m on the pathway to Heaven – maybe I’ll be going to the real paradise – maybe back there is the real Hell & now I’m simply escaping to where I was always supposed to be“.

He also had a whole bunch of somewhat similar but much less likely thoughts interrogating him. Joe now tried to think straight. He knew he had to make a tough decision – a gamble if you will. Should he go forward to a possible hell or heaven or conversely go back to a possible heaven or hell?

This mightily big decision was all too much for him – like the pro sportsman who is picked far too early to national prominence – he panicked lost all of his composure.

As he crawled backwards, back toward home, all the prior things he saw disappeared – they were replaced with total darkness & he could not feel any gravity. In fact, it felt like he was in space, he was like a Space Man who had become untethered from his craft. He was moving his arms & legs but there only blackness.

He kept his crawling going, hoping that something would change – time seemed to disappear.

“I guess this is what eternity feels like” he thought.

Joe was now feeling very stupid fearful & totally helpless. The only thing was to keep up his crawling motions & somehow hope he’d somehow pop back home like one of those quantum tunneling electron he read about recently.

he couldn’t stop the negative speak.

“I’m a coward..I’m such a coward…I’m a faithless coward & I can’t change it for nothing or for no one”

“I thought I was a big shot – I thought I was like General Patton & would save the day for my towns troops – I thought I had courage, so much for that – bang goes that theory!”

Then out of nowhere he heard a clunk – he was back inside the domed glass hitting his bloody head.

He had been somehow squeezed back inside the glass jar prison that was his usual life, back to the moment before he blacked out.

“Thank god I’m back” he thought to himself.

He stopped smacking his head against the glass & mentally dusted himself off. He turned around & looked up at the view in front of his bleary sore eyes. Everything about the town & townsfolk going about their days looked totally totally bog standard normal.

Joe convinced himself to steadfastly to give up his immature wild thought of a better life outside the town. He’d go about his business, as if none of this had happened. He’d think of it all as ‘a psychotic break’ – he now wasn’t so sure that it wasn’t. Maybe he’d simply ‘lost his mind’ for the last forty-eight hours.

He resolved to act just as everyone else in the town was acting & had always acted. After all – everything happens for a reason, he told himself.

It turned a few locals had seen him pop back into the town side of the glass dome. Not that it mattered. Not one of them was stupid enough raise the matter of what had happened to Joe or why – their brains simply didn’t allow it – it was an automatic process of survival.

Joe had thought he was smarter than the locals – but he now new differently – he felt like a hack, a fraud.

Yes, Joe knew the truth of his & everyone else’s prison cell, but even when he was about to be totally free of it – he lacked the courage to truly embrace the moment & soldier on.

He would forever know that he had literally come ‘crawling back’ to this two-bit economically depressed town. For that he felt like a coward for the rest of his life & as the years passed by, that feeling only intensified. On top of that was the burden of ‘not knowing’.

Joe had the pitt of his stomach pain of forever not knowing what would have happened if he’d had more courage to continue into the unknown outside the domed glass town prison walls.

One thought would now be his endless companion.

“Was I such an idiot that I rejected the chance for eternal happiness, beauty & endless love?”

One day years later as he was digging a ditch under the scorching sun, he pulled his gnarled overworked body to the side of the ditch & gazed upwards through his sweat filled eyes.

He saw a commotion outside near the town boundary – a mob of townsfolk was watching someone do something.

Some guy was bashing his head seemingly against nothing.

He thought to himself.

“Man looks like there is another localised gravitational contortion field a-brewing – we had that back in ’29 & ’87. I’m sure I read about it in the library way back when”.

Joe then ignored it & continued digging.

THE END

“The Pickle Jar” (A Short Story)

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by Martin Anton Smith

And finally, after such protracted disarray – the Earth was able to take a new breath. Every nook & cranny of all the streets in all the towns in all the Nations had been at War. Unlike prior world wars no one had been able to sneakily cop out of the combat – the old the infirm they were all at each other. But now it had ‘suddenly’ ended.

The decades long incendiary bombardment fell to a few claps, a single clap, & then pure silence. It was the kind of stark silence that could be felt. Within the hour the ubiquitous dust settled enough so allowing the sun to turn yellow again, rather than its usual dust-cloud-created sack-cloth brown. Most of the World had never seen the Sun’s true yellowness. 

After a while the Earths animals clued onto things. A bird’s chirp was heard, and then another, then hundreds, then they emerged from the holes & flew around happily in reconnaissance missions. The few remaining uneaten cats & dogs could be heard to meow & bark again.

The biggest War the world had known was now over. The War had lasted 83 years & Earth had lost 8 billion souls, leaving only 100,000 victors. This War had decimated 99% of the Population. All other wars in comparison became like two toddlers rolling on the ground playfighting.

Before the war had started, everyone had assumed it could only be a be a nuclear War that would decimate the Earth to that extent – they were wrong. Dead wrong. No one had anticipated it would be a ‘culture war’ that would be the spark that lit the world on fire. And what specifically was this ‘culture war’? It was the mind-virus of ultra extreme pathological feminism.

This mind-virus had flown under the radar for decades – It was joked about for at least 60 years, but eventually the world woke up to a complete reversal of sex roles. Men had become women & women had become men – the controlling kind. Before the war broke out all men in semi-serious relationships & above were stripped entirely of their former freedoms. They could not leave the house unless the lady of the house decided it was in the household’s best interest. They could not work on cars, watch sports, listen to stereos or do any of the former masculine interests. In fact, societies mad leaders had made it illegal to do so.

But you can only suppress the human spirit for so long – eventually good must pop open the shackles of a straitjacketed society. So this being true – sooner or later the end had to happen. What the rebel soldiers & their followers had been known simply as “WifeWars”, was now finally over.

The remaining valiant men & a few ex enemy women who were won over to the rebel’s side, were the last few tens of thousands from the War that were left standing. With it being over they were now keen to have at least some tiny morsels of the taste of victory. Though everyone knew this victory was about as ‘pyric’ a victory as was possible given that humanity was within a hairs breadth of becoming entirely extinct & all infrastructure had been levelled. It was a world of make do fixes, rubble, foxholes, & tonnes of scrap metal.

Even so, this ‘ground zero’ lack-of-everything-world was not talked about openly in the the early post-battlefield days, months & years – how would this help the rebels rebuild?

The mostly male victors were free to arrange the first truly self-managed spontaneous party in more that 8 decades. They wouldn’t need to be putting up their hands anymore to ask for any ‘spousal feminine permission’, to get up off their chairs, to leave their rooms, to call a friend, to leave the house, to buy some beer to have a ‘boys night out’. For the men to have a big ‘Freedom Party’ was seen as a miraculous gift from the heavens above. Tears flowed as the rebels hugged & sobbed in the immediate hours of the end of War – their emotions could be safely emitted.

Yes, it was now a brave new world. It was one hell of a party. So big & so lubricated & so long lasting was the celebration it was told more than a third of the participants had forgotten the War had even happened at all & that they had fought their whole adult lives fighting it. Of course, the next day their memories returned, although the hangovers lasted longer.

Time moved forward & peace again reigned on the depopulated Earth. Eventually as the baby boom played out & economies rebuilt the people of the post-war world would come to never believe that the cataclysm World War called “Wifewars” – was an actual real-world war. People began to mistake its oral history for a fairytale, or if they admitted it was real – it became thought of as a just a regional skirmish. And so with this worldwide collective repression of past memories, the seeds for a return to a similar future devastation were sowed.

So, this dystopian anti-male culture war scenario happened again. Once again both figuratively & in a few cases literally – billions of beta male married & practically married men’s ‘gnarlies’ would again be locked up in hermetically sealed pickle jars & then held under lock & key by their wives or as-good-as-wives. The cycle of terror had indeed returned. History was repeating, thanks to the world’s false memories & willing ignorance.

The last War had been won in indistinct guerilla warfare fashion. It was a War with no heroes, there was no Patton, no Mongomery. There were no distinct villains either – no Napoleon-esses. But this time around the jar had been shaken somewhat differently – after all this era was one that secretly valued a hero – so this time a hero would be needed – but who would save the men this time?

Cometh the hour, cometh the man, cometh 39-year-old, small town shoe salesman named ‘Larry’. The thoughts of being a ‘hero of a new rebellion’ swirled through Larry’s mind. He wa like all the other second-class males – a bedraggled DeFacto married man living in this second epoch of troubles, he was controlled, ordered, belittled & sometimes spat at. But Larry was clever & his secret of mental toughness was that he knew that the oral History of the prior War called “Wifewars” was actually entirely true – he knew that history was repeating.

He had watched silently as the ‘Zombie Wives’ had plied their trade-of-terror on the men, he’d studied their ways in true profiler detective fashion. ‘Zombie Wives’ was his term for them – that’s what he called them to himself, never out loud for fear of reprisal. They’d now dominated the planet again & ruled with their sometimes shapely but mostly solid & square ‘iron’ fists. As he & his kind were casually maligned & mistreated, he had watched & despaired of the lack of a ‘Rebel Leader’ emerging.

“Larry you can do this” he said to himself as he did his pre-sleep ritual – massaging his six-foot wife’s bunions, as she griped about his uselessness & that she should have married Troy her first true love. “Troy was so sexy” she’d say, then she’d continue “Troy could fix anything – not like you…Troy was a real man”. “Yes dear, of course dear” was the most assertive retort he could get away with.

While Larry was massaging Susan’s horribly square feet & trotting out “yes dears” – there was an almighty crash coming from the kitchen – it was Susan’s giant pickled onion Jar falling of the kitchen shelf & on to the floor – through the carnage of broken glass & vinegar the two pickled onions had rolled with such force they had rolled out to the lounge room where they were & lapped against Larrys knees.

Larry wasn’t strictly ‘spiritual’ but to him in that moment the pickles seeking him out was the spiritual sign he had needed. God was telling him to find his deeply buried balls & use them to save men-kind.

He would be the ‘Rebel Leader’ to again save the enslaved mistreated & bedraggled married, semi married & heavily girlfriend-ed males. He let go of those giant sweaty bulbous feet, raised himself up & steadily walked towards the door. He left the house without shutting the door or looking back. Susan his shrieking overbearing wife’s voice was slowly reducing in volume with each step away from her couch:

“Laaarrrrry! What are you doing! Come Back here! I didn’t give you permission to leave! Come & massage my bunions immediately! Laaaarry! Lary! Laaaary! You’re not going to your annual drink with Tom & Bill are you? You can’t do that till Sep 29th -it’s only July 3rd! Laaaaaarrrry!”. She got up to chase him, but her fitness or lack of it was no match for Larry’s purposeful strides…plus she was paralysed by shock, he’d never seen him stand up for himself – ever.

Larry headed to his best friend Bill’s house & then they’d both go to their other mutial best friend Tom. These were the three men that their wives had decided would be best friends in the first place. Under this typical tyranny they had been allowed to meet and drink together once a year, under a surveilled video link; they were also allowed a weekly call to each other – with their wives listening in of course. That ‘prisoners life’ was dcrumbling with every clopping long stride of Larry’s as it hit the pavement to Bills house. The first stage of the rebellion & the start of “WifeWars 2” – another World War – was underway.

And so “WifeWars 2” the world war played out. Again 8 billion were wiped out, with devestation again hitting every square meter of the populated Earth. Again the ‘Ultra Femminist Zombies’ were subdued – Thanks to Larry the Supreme commander, with Bill & Tom being his most trusted General. But this time round the Victory had only taken 37 years. January the 13th 2057 was officially known as V.F.Z day – “Victory Over the Femminazi Zombies”

Well After the War, some seventy years later, this V.F.Z. day would be better known as “P.O.- Day” – Pickled Onion Day – for everyone knew Larry’s moment where he realised his destiny – when the Pickle jar broke & sent two testicular pickles his way.

In all the myriads of small towns that were the norm in this brave new world, the few remaining war vets & a few thousand of their decendants marched past the standardised monument to their glorious, & now long fallen leader – it was a giant 10 Foot statue of Larry, Bill, & Tom. they were all encased inside in what looked like a glass pickle jar.

The monument creator had done a great job. Larry striked a confidant pose & was smiling ear to ear. he had been hoisted by Bill & Tom & was sitting proudly atop their shoulders. The Jar he stood inside was a giant bullet proof glass pickle jar – complete with Susan’s original label “Crunchee Firm Pickles In White Vinigar” . Larry was wearing rebel militia garb of mottled blue & green. On his head was the standard issue rebel soldiers wide brimmed hat with of course the top dogs commander-in-chief’s emblem – a pickle jar with 10 silver pickles in it. Bill & Tom’s were essentially the same – but with 9 & 8 pickles respectively.

On top of that Larry’s likeness was holding a giant slingshot that was cocked & loaded with an oversized pickled onion aiming downwards. The three of them were also standing atop a large pile of defeated enemy ‘Femmi-Nazi Zombie’ soldiers. Their most prescient feature was that they seemed very long & all had giant square shaped feet with some kind of boils on them – & of course very mean frowny downward trending faces.

The artist had even put some embossed-worded, iron sheeted speech bubbles attached to a few of their mouths they read:

“Laaaarrry come back here”…

“Where are you going Laarry?” …

“My feet! My Poor Swollen Feet… Laaaarrry!!!”…….

“Boy you’ll pay for this Larry!”….

“Larry! Where are you going… Larry!”…

“Laaarry……don’t leeeave me alooone with my thoooughts”.

The thousands of statues were just the beginning – Larry, Tom & Bill had made sure that this time this version of the ‘brave new world’ would not forget that this terrible genocidal war against men’s spirits had indeed actually happened. The gender wars were for once & for all over.

Men & Women then got on very well with peace reigning supreme for another ten thousand years, until some teenage fool while walking in the park had asked glibly of his girlfriend ‘but what really is a woman anyway?’…

THE END

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

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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.

“Are We Ready For The AI Onslaught? Is This A War Humans Can Win? Or Are We Blind To See Future Alternative Timelines?” (A Creative Essay)

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“Are We Ready For The AI Onslaught? Is This A War Humans Can Win? Or Are We Blind To See Future Alternative Timelines?” (A Creative Essay)

by Martin Anton Smith III, New Zealand.  

(Editor’s Note: Martin Anton Smith III is a Founding member of “Future & Present Danger Of AI In War & Work Institute” (FUPDAIWI) – The Thinktank based in the Mountains of the Southern Alps in the South Island Of NZ, & soon holding a “War & Economy” conference safely inside a mountain ensconced venue in the alpine resort of Queenstown NZ – weather permitting. in this article he outlines a prescription to avoid being a casualty of the future AI dominated Earthscape set to hit with vengeance in 2025 – far earlier than most people predict. While many conservatives may find this article ‘hard to swallow’, we strongly recommend you consider becoming physically stronger & more creative as a career hedge. Please email him directly at martinantonsmith@gmail.com regarding the conference or any other queries – Edward I. Sez – EDITOR of “FutureAI For Business & War Magazine”(who will publish an exclusive sequel to this article shortly).)

The following prose blends truth & fiction together interchangeably. The reader must decide what is truth & what is fiction & what is satire. This is of course a theme we have to deal with in our new world, which has emerged in force from prior more reasonable times.

As to when it became clear times had changed – one could mention the year 2001 or 2008 or 2016 or even perhaps as late as 2020. I prefer to think in regards to this question in the metaphor of a person emerging from swimming in the sea – initially you can only se there head, then as they return to the beach you see their torso & when they leave the water you see the entire body.

But to continue with the beach swimmer analogy – once they are out of the surf they are free to do a wide array of totally different things from just wading through water – they may run along the beach, they may have a party with a BBQ, they may jump in their SUV & drive to the next beach etc. This is us now – emerged from predictability & our path is about to crystallise into one of many distinct options.

I believe the world has entered a dramatic tipping point. I think anyone over the age of 30 realises this intuitively. We have Wars, Propaganda, Politicians not only ignoring democracy at will, but saddling up to a wide array of shady corporate & faux NGO leaders. Madness has become quite normal, in our now quite unhinged Western culture.

So, we are in a tipping point. Let me now enter a guess & predict game of what that may look like. It may seem ridiculous what I will say – but that is the point – we are in strange times & so what will happen may be crazy & also the real reality. Let me now change gear.

It Is Now T-Minus 751 days (a little more than 2 years) until The Business Community starts to en-masse regret not using more Ai in hiring decisions. A world dominated by AI Employees is actually arguably a natural progression of its precursor state – of decades old software automation & centuries old robotics in factory production.

But the lack of social guidelines means a lack of common sense in regulating AI so it doesn’t take all the good jobs, or most of them.

So our immaturity means the AI bull is free to potentially destroy the ‘China shop’ that is our work & private lives & our public lives too.

Assuming AI employees ramp upwards unhindered – his will mean “peak human employee” will have finally been reached within a matter of months. Once this shift/tipping point has played out I predict 50-75% of all current corporate & “office jobs” will no longer be available for non-AI based entities (formerly known as “Human Beings”).

And so what of practical solutions? What could an administrator do to improve his chances vs an AI usurper?

Rather than be like the “Wheelright of Yesteryear” in the late 19th & Early 20th Centuries who ignored the combustion engine to his unemployed doom – you can definitely prepare now.

I will cut to the chase & tell you the most important facts – & afterwards I will close with some final thoughts (some of you will think I get far too silly -but remember some of this is satire some truth & some fiction – & where the boundaries lie isn’t actually entirely clear to even me).

You must do the following to compete & enter those economies & industries more resilient to AI Employee Saturation

(AES)

– Become more genuinely creative in multiple disciplines

– Improve your ability to do physical work & rethink your view of the Trades as these skills cannot be replaced by AI cybernetic organisms for the foreseeable future

-Know that if you have mathematical/logical based job you are also in the firing line if creativity/physical labour is not also a major component (e.g. Accountants/Bookkeepers/Admin – this is already happening via companies such as ZERO)

– Military or Military-like skills (Advanced Health & Strength, Stoicism & True Leadership) will be more highly sought after as Society again moves towards a War Economy

– Improve you emotional IQ as this becomes key to unlocking your pathway to personal, professional & military outcomes.

– Reduce dependence on pharmaceuticals Class A Drugs & Alcohol (namely the Corporate Helper aka SSRI’s). Very soon people who have a long-term history of low pharmaceuticals & alcohol abuse will be seen via the Worldwide AI-based monitoring system (Similar to the Chinese social credit system) & headhunted by businesses.

– Allow yourself to combat your cognitive dissonance that will keep you from moving to the next phase of human development whereby the main skill is successfully defending your employment from AI via using a Militaristic Multiskilled Creative Leadership & kinetic IQ & High EQ approach (Soon to be known as your MILMULCK-IQ/EQ score by Employers)

– Correct your poor depressive Corporate BODY LANGUAGE profile as AI surveillance (& so Employers) will certainly use this as BLACK LIST ITEM, stopping you from non-basic AI servicing employment

– Work on cultivating a ‘good sense of humour’ as all workplaces will have at least 5% of roles that are essentially the same as the “Court Jester” in Feudal times.

While the above critical survival skills for the “Human Employee Singularity Event” may seem revolutionary & unbelievable to you now – you must fight this emotional feeling so as you can re-program yourself to prosper & survive post 2025. This is a world where AI & AI Cybernetic & AI Robots have fully jumped off the sci-fi screen & into the reality of day-to-day work & life on Earth.

Unfortunately, the year 2025 there will be no distinct “welfare society” – which has up until now, acted as a safety net for Human Beings. By 2025 The world will be simultaneously be in a Great Depression, A Third World War & A ‘Rise Of The Machines’ Terminator-style AI takeover of the ‘Employment World’ & the adjoining Global & National Economies & Military environments.

There is no easy way to say the next sentence.

This will unfortunately mean that for those who have low MILMULCK scores will be sent to service the AI Military Soldiers who fight on the global battlefields of WW3 – They will serve not as “AI Paramedics” (as AI will do this itself) – but as ‘Human Sheilds’.

The only benefit to being a “Human Sheild For AI Soldiers” is that when hit by the Concentrated EMP Blast Lazer Ordinance (CEBLO) from the enemy AI Soldiers – you will instantly vapourised into carbonized nano-particles & thus be taken away with the slightest microscopic breeze.

Of this fateful future knowledge of a possible laser -based demise, you can rest easy knowing that you helped your higher functioning superior AI entity, that is on your side, directly fighting WW3, & managing the economy far beyond what you & your fellow bumbling Low-MILMULCK score friends & colleagues ever would.

For those who heed my warning you can relax. You will work hard to raise your MILMULCK score from now (2023) to the outbreak of Human Vs AI Singularity Event in late 2025 (or to those already in the know – HUVAISE ’25). This will guarantee you a critical & long-term place in the dystopian post ‘AI Singularity’ world.

For those perhaps of you who are vapourised as human shields on the WW3 battlefronts – don’t say I didn’t warn you – I implore you to leave your arrogance behind, realise you have by two years left to prepare for HUVAISE & WW3 – both an Economic & Military War – raise your MILMULCK score.

I repeat RAISE YOUR MILMULCK SCORE!

Don’t be caught out & be just another un-needed un-creative, undexterous, arrogant & humourless Accountant, Lawyer or Politician – vapourised by an enemy AI Soldier’s CEBLO gun, on the battlefront of WW3 & your ashes scattered into the wind and to the four corners of the Earth.

You could just do nothing & let the winds of destiny wash over you – and I wouldn’t blame anyone for this – especially if you are over 50, it’s very hard to have the mental & physical energy to change at all after 50 (or even 40 for that matter.

What will be is what will be, but people shouldn’t be so silly to think that the AI revolution won’t change everything about how we live our lives, if not by 2025 then surely by 2040. There might not be 75% human unemployment & our slavery as human shields for AI robots in a Terminator-like WW3 may be wildly overblown – yes we might have our lives turned into greyness in a whimper like fashion rather than a bang – but isn’t that almost more of a tragedy than the big bang?

At least with chaos can eventually come order – perhaps just perhaps we would win a WW3 against the rampaging AI & then the impetus would be there to courageously set up a good post war society for us all.

We should not look forward to AI slowly grinding us down, in similar fashion to how over 20 year employees went from having no email to having hundreds of them, mostly mindless requests & choosing to go along with a ruined, less personable work day

Given the fact we have so readily become slaves to earlier less intelligent but very annoying technology – I don’t have much hope for us banding together & having a worldwide grassroots project to avert AI taking over the Earth – but even so we should at least try & fail than not try at all.

I guess the easiest thing to do is for people to talk about the threats of AI over the office water cooler- that’s an achievable mission – for now.

THE END

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

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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).

Posted in America, Australia, fiction, Future, FutureWar, Germany, Neoliberalism, New Zealand, short story, social commentary, WW3Tagged , , , , Leave a comment

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.