Tag: war

“Alas The Poor Fellow Has DHPS” (A Poem)

Posted in UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

by Martin Anton Smith

Women prefer good looking men.

But what they really really live for is a “fixer upper”.

YES, Women prefer ‘Simpletons’.

So if you have brains, you better hide it fella!

That is, if you want to get laid.

Which, if you are the average joe schmoe,

You will be willing to lose your life for.

The odd Black Widow aside, this, usually happens metaphorically of course.

That deadening drawn out-ed-ness spiritual death.

of long-term Domestic Hen-Peckery.

This doesn’t all happen out of nowhere, so let me explain.

It all happens like this:

The bloke is so desperate for sex he marries a henpecking bitch,

Who soon enough ends up not shaging him anyway.

Soon enough he’s left only with a Henpecker, that won’t touch his Pecker.

Which is, inarguably so, a fate worse than death.

The only thing left to hope for for these poor fellows, is for a World War to again break out.

For when WW1 & WW2 broke, these henpecked & dusty peckered lot rejoiced heartily!

For they were no longer trapped at home with their wives & children!

Sure they might get their heads blown off by flak or rifle fire at any minute,

But that was a relatively small price to pay in comparison to their Domestic Henpeckery.

This is the problem with most men you see –

They overprice the chances of gleeful marital or defacto sex,

Yet totally underprice their chances of daily freedom.

For a man without a modicum of freedom, is truly not really a man.

He is but a shell of one.

That fact should not be deemed controversial, old fashioned or untrue.

Of course ‘Domestic Henpeckery’s’ got so so much worse nowadays,

As Nazi-like feminism has become as normalised as a deadly WW2 Panzer attack in 1940.

And so after decades upon decades of this phenomenon,

So now men have become women & women men.

And often very literally so.

It is an attrocious state of affairs!

So I have a final message to the modern 21st Century man:

Don’t be stupid,

Don’t marry of even date a Hen Pecker! –

Value your freedom of Association!

Value your freedom of Speech!

Value your freedom of Movement!

Value your Solitude!

Don’t marry a Hen Pecker,

Not Now,

Not Never,

Or on behalf of you Pecker!

Which contrary to working class beliefs,

Has acutely limited executive function.

It’s either that or get trapped & wait for WW3,

To finally set you free.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Although I’m probably kidding myself,

As men who over-trust their peckers, also don’t read books.

And so certainly – not my obscure & curmudgeonly written poems,

Emanating from the Arse-End-Of-The-World.

Luckily for me,

A subset of them might.

Perhaps a few hardened prison inmates might end up read these words,

So I’ll also half-dedicate this Poem to them.

Off course my warning is largely useless for these jailbirds,

For they are already protected by the Deadly Henpeckers by wrought iron bars,

Those Lucky Bastards!

But then again – one day they’ll too rejoin us all in the prison without bars.

But for the rest of the henpecked non book reading dopes out there,

They can only hope that their Putin stands strong & then their Trump retaliates with fire (or vice versa).

And so then,

Once again,

And as always,

A World War can come quietly to set them free,

From that casually murderous misandry,

Known in the near future in the Psychiatrist’s DSM manuals as:

Domestic Hen-Peckery Syndrome.

(Or DHPS for short).

You Vs. IT (A Poem)

Posted in Poems, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

by Martin Anton Smith

They’ll hate you for being You.

They want you to be IT.

They want you to be just another square inch.

A square Inch of the undefined amorphous blob.

The Blob-blanket that stretches wide & covers the Earth.

If you decide to become You,

IT will come after You.

And IT won’t stop,

until You regress back to be you.

IT wants You back in the fold.

IT has almost never failed.

So now you know IT,

It’s all up to You.

Vituperation or A Battle-Cry?

Posted in UncategorizedTagged , Leave a comment

The working classes are far too fond of egregious vituperation –

Outside of War, all it does is weaken a man’s position.

As average joes –

We should all cooperate to reducing our vituperation.

We should save it for the battleground of War,

& Our bandage station recouperations.

Like we all used to try to do.

“The Pickle Jar” (A Short Story)

Posted in UncategorizedTagged , , Leave a comment

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

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

Posted in UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

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

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

Tom Picked Up A Handfull Of Books On the Floor:

Plato’s Timaes

Henry Bukowski – Ham On Rye

Edward Gibbon – The Rise & Fall Of The Roman Empire

Stephen Hawking – A Brief History of Time

Thomas Kuhn – The Structure Of Scientific Revolutions

Kafka – A Collection of Short Stories

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

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

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

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

Telly Advised Tom:

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

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

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

Captain Tom Replied.

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

“I Calculate The Odds At 99.784% Captain”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hank Showed Signs Of Relief.

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

Tom Squirmed Just A Little.

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

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

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

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

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

Hank Signed The Book.

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

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

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

Tom’s Strategy of Vagueness Had Worked Well.

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

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

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

Hank Signed The Inside Cover. It Read:

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

– Hank Schmidt September Twenty Two 2034

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

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

“Sit Down Tom & Tell Me About Yourself”.

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

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

Tom Smiled Warmly, Non-Threateningly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hank Continued. His Monologue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There Was No Answer.

He Rapped Louder.

Again, No Answer, No Noise.

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

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

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

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

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

NERO’S NEW PLANS – A New Rejigged Roman Empire To Rule 21st Century Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes Captain”

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

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

“Where Too Next Telly?”

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

Tom Beamed A Giant Planetoid Sized Smile.

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

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

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

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

“Touche Telly, Touche”

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

Tom Had One More Request For the Journey.

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

“Yes Captain”.

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

THE END

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

Posted in fiction, social commentaryTagged , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

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.

“The Drunken Everyman’s Beer Hall Putsch”(A Poem)

Posted in PoemsTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Sargeant Schwearing Wore A Big Moustache

And Wore It With Panache

But Alas this Man Was Too Bitter

And Rumoured a Distant Cousin Of Hitler!

He Would Come To My Bar

In A Volkswagon Beetle

He Would Pull Up A Pew

And a Regular Diatribe He Would Spew

I Will Now Recount The Story

In All Of Its Glory

Sargeant Schwaring Why Are You Swearing?

Is It Your Crap Job Or Nagging Wife

Or Too Tight Underwear You’re Wearing?

Or Is It The Weather, Or That Wild Dog

That On Your Paper-Round is Appearing?

Is It The Snob Next Door

Who Laughs Coz You’re Poor

Yet Cannot Afford To Fix His Own Door?

Is It The Politician Who Taxes You Silly

And Gives It To the Truely Rich

Or Is It Your Supervisor Who Of You Loves To Snitch?

Sargeant Scwearing Your Life’s A Hard One

With Virtually No Fun

Your Destiny’s Full Of Road-Blocks

And You Chew On Last Weeks Hog Hocks

You Live In Men’s Hostel Accommodation

With The Spirits Of Damnation

But Surely Soon Your Luck Will Turn

And Of Those Starry Nights You Yearn

You Will Ride Into the Sun

While Holding a Sugary Bun

Your Wife Will No Longer Nagg

Having been “Surgically Reverse De-Hagged”

The Money Will Flow

You’ll Be Revered For Things You Don’t Know

Men Will March In Your Honour

Unwitting That You’ve Made Them All A Gone-er

Oh My!, Sargeant Schwearing!, The Silver Lining Is Here!

So Now Celebrate It, & Swig Your German Beer!

That’s It Swig the Stein Down

All Over Your Army Fatigue Gown!

The Govt Spy Was Watching & Waiting

While You Were Gesticulating

He Pounced, You Flounced & He Said

“You’ve Had Too Much Drink

You’re Arrested, Arrested Big!

I’m Throwing You In The Clink!”

And now Your Oasis Has Turned to Dust

You Snatched Defeat From Certain Victory

Hmmm….It Kinda Of Reminds Me Of Distant History

Of This “Unfair Punishment”, You’ve Turned Three Shades Of Blue

And Now You Rot In Prison & Do Angrily Stew

Sargeant Schwearing I Can Only Assume

Is This Belated Payback For World War Two?

What’s That Sargeant? I Stabbed You In The Sack?

By Serving That Bavarian Beer You Happily Through Back?

Oh Schwearing, Of You, I Am Not A Believer

I Merely Pull Beers At The ‘Bertrunkener Biber’ – The Drunken Beaver

Oh Schwearing – My Dear Fellow

I’ll Ignore Your Shameful Bellow

Your Letters Get No Better

Of Prison Shackles Your Words Unfetter

But Sargeant Schwearing – You Lost Fair & Square

You Wanted The Beer – That Tasty Brew

Now I Suggest You Go Fester & Plan

The Outbreak Of World War Three,

My Little Man.

But I admit – You Do Entertain Us Very Mutch

In Your Nightly Performance Of Verbal Slush

You Might Even Call It

“The Drunken Everyman’s Beer Hall Putsch”.

“As It Has Always Been” (A Poem)

Posted in UncategorizedTagged , , , Leave a comment

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

He Dreamt Of Furure Wars

For A Long Time, Nothing Happened.

But Then After Many Years It Did.

Society Finally Imploded.

The New Operating System,

That The World Had Changed To

In The Early Two-Thousands,

Finally Collapsed.

The Final Five-Decade-Long

Elongated Death Knell,

Suddenly Gave Way,

Under Its Own Weight.

The Operating System Of People

Of Pride, Lies, Corruption, Materialism & Immorality.

The Lies That Were So Big,

That They Were Too Big To Fail,

But They Had To Fail –

As The Operating System,

Was At Core

Sinister.

The Operating System Created Zombies

Of Everyday Men.

But Then A Rupture Came

Called World War Two.

In A Brief Moment Zombification Dissipated

Zombies Were Rare –

For the World Had Been Temporarily Cleansed,

In The Ashes Of War.

But By The Twenty Twenty’s,

Of The 21st Century

It Was Again – Like The Nineteen Twenties – Rare To NOT Be A Zombie.

For The Next War Was A-Knocking.

But As A Man Speaking From The Near Future,

I Can Honestly Say

In Our Times The Fourth World War

Is Now Commonly Referred To As

“It Was The War We Had to Have”.

For Everything On Earth Decays & Corrupts,

In Long Cycles

Just As True As The Sun Rising,

And The Galaxy Turning.

For That That Is Our Struggle Here

Attached To Machines Of Congealed Light

That Require Too Much Maintenance.

I Fought In the War From 2024-35

And Somehow Survived Along With The 2 Billlion Survivors.

I Am Glad To Say We Are Experiencing Another Post War Boom.

We Look After Each Other & Follow The Golden Rule.

But I Know We Are Forever Trapped In A Lull,

A Trough In The Same Cycle,

Created By The Same Operating System.

I Know My Son, Grandson, Or Great Grandson

Will Feel The Pain Of Coming Zombified Decay,

And Will Be Fighting Again In World War Five.

This Is The Curse Of Man On Earth.

Then, Now & In The Future.

It’s The Planet Of The Apes,

Where No One Knows They Are Apes.

And I Ask Of You –

How Dumb Is That?

This Seems To Be Our Forever Nightmare,

Perhaps Only Truely Understandable,

As Punishment For Bad Deeds, In Another Realm.

I Guess We Will Find Out When We Die,

But We Must Forget Again,

After All – We Are All Still Here,

In A Place That Doesn’t Ever Feel Like Home.

If We Are Lucky,

This May Just Be The “Apple Of Knowledge Effect”.

But I highly Doubt That.

I Prefer The Punishment For Bad Deeds Theory,

It Can’t Be A Mistake That Earth Is So Fucked Up.

I Mean – How Can It Be?

And Perhaps the Final Proof Of Our Damnation:

To Go Anywhere In The Universe,

Such As Other Solar Systems & Galaxies,

You Must Travel

Close To The Speed Of Light,

But Conditions Are Such,

That This Is Practically Impossible.

Isn’t That Truth Also Our Prison Walls?

You Couldn’t Design A Better Univeral Prison Than That.

An Intelligent Person Must Respect

Whoever Came Up With That Great Design –

Even If They Are Themselves Captive Prisoners Of His Jail.

But Of Course – We Are Mostly Too Dumb To Realise These Matters,

And So We Repeat The Same Destructive Cycles.

And If You Say These Facts You Are Deemed “Crazy” or “Negative”.

But As I Always Say,

To My Nodding & Mutually Sozzled Fellow World-World-War-Four Vets

“If A Zombie Calls Me Crazy, I Sure Know I’m Not Only Sane – But Entirely Correct”.

Occasionally Someone Disagrees With Us Old Coots,

Even In This Temporary Post War Glow (So the Slide Has Already Begun Again).

But We Take These Omens In Our Stride

Everyone Knows That A Zombie Can Be Neutralised

By Simply Eating His Brain.

So For Now We Can Feast On Zombies Easily,

But We All Know That Soon Again, There Will Be Too Many Zombies,

And Not Enough War Vets.

Ut Semper Brutus, Ut Semper.

“The Landlord, The Weed & The Warlords” (A Poem)

Posted in fiction, Poems, social commentary, SociologyTagged , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

My Gardener Read A Lot About Napoleon

When I asked Him To Pull Weeds He Refused

He Said He Hadn’t Yet Finalised Battleplans

For The Eastern Portion Of My Yard

I asked Him “But Are You Up For It?”

He Said “It May Be My Demise”

I Turned Around & Went Back To My Silly-Screen.

& Left Him To Turn the Pages Of His ‘Parallel Lives’

When I Returned An Hour Later

A Russian Gardener Had Usurped Him

I Was About To Celebrate My Weeds Death

When I Saw He Too Was Holding A Book

“The Brothers Karamazov”

Oh No I Thought As I Realised That

My New Gardener Was Reading Stalin’s Favourite Book

I Tested Him

“Would You Mind Pulling Those Weeds” I Asked

He Simply Pointed Over To the Garden

My Landlord Was Pulling the Weeds Out

But They Were Also Tied to a Stake

I Went Back Inside to My Silly-Screen With A Broad Smile

It Was Nice To See Societies Roles Reversed

And Soon the Garden Would Look Great!

For Garden Work Is Just Like the History of Tyranny

The Ends Justify the Means.