Preface
Dinner would’ve been served hours ago if it wasn’t for the deepest of conversations. The wine is getting more bitter, as we proceed to laugh and joke about the most devious of subjects to toy with. I had no intention to join in, but what I found funny they wouldn’t, so I had no choice. Once we take our orders from the stone cold waiter- her eyes tell me an ancient story- we continue to discover different things to talk about in conversation. After a few minutes of small talk one of the men, cigar in mouth, fat and short, sits up. He cleans his mouth with his napkin.
All members of the cabinet are present; the slithering snakes, the rambling pigs. I myself do not fit these characteristics, but I can imagine myself sooner or later going through a metamorphosis of thought and appearance. But I guess that’s what being a member of parliament does to you.
“I say sir, who is to be responsible when they find out?” The fat man sits up, giving out a croaky cough. One of the tall men scoffs at this question.
“You are mistaken,” he says. “The key word is ‘if’, not ‘when’. What on earth are you talking about? No one will ever find out. We have the power to change thoughts. Who needs God when the public have us?” Another pig squeals for attention.
“But the public do not approve,” he says. “Our methods are not working. We need to do more to get their support if they are to vote for us again next year.” The fat man answers to the prayers of the dictatorship, with a revelation that haunts us all.
“They probably won’t vote for anyone this year.” We sat up, intrigued by his prophet like appearance. He drinks another glass, his third of the evening.
He sits there, grinning, as he draws his attention to the sign above. He clears his throat and comes to his senses. We stare deep into his eyes, like an eternal abyss of nothing.
The sign above his head sets my teeth on edge:
THERE ARE NO SAINTS ALLOWED IN PARLIAMENT
YOU MAY NOT SPEAK YOUR MIND IN ANY GIVEN WAY
YOU MAY ONLY SPEAK THE MIND OF THE CHOSEN PERSON
YOU ARE NOT OF ANY SIGNIFICANCE TO LIFE OR TO EARTH
YOU ARE OF WALKING ABORTION LIKE THE OTHERS
NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SMELL THE FUTURE
YOU MAY NOT SPEAK YOUR MIND IN ANY GIVEN WAY
YOU MAY ONLY SPEAK THE MIND OF THE CHOSEN PERSON
YOU ARE NOT OF ANY SIGNIFICANCE TO LIFE OR TO EARTH
YOU ARE OF WALKING ABORTION LIKE THE OTHERS
NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SMELL THE FUTURE
Upon the fourth glance we go back to our conversation. It all goes tense.
“So, what you are saying,” another snake says. “Is that no one will vote? There will be no government if that was to happen.” The fat man goes to object, but finds himself under the banner of the sign above his head like a corrupted halo. He clears his throat and proceeds to swallow on the pale wine. I butt in, and volunteer myself to participate in the meeting of their premature, humourless minds.
“But the thing is, where is this all going?” That question rattles the ears of the host of this meeting. There is dead silence for 30 seconds, like the awkward stature one has at a funeral party. The short, fat man snorts and burps. The swines, still trying to squeal for some sort of attention, proceed to drown their stomachs with wine. The serpents have been staring at me, with their transparent glass spheres, for hours on end. Even during sessions in the House of Idealism they are watching my every move. They stay poised and ready to strike the heart of the working class, licking their lips with their double edged tongues, with their eyes on the prize- the prize being the destruction of ordinary people’s morality. This place resembles a palace ruined by years of corrupt royalty and the seedy smell of cigarette smoke. The air is polluted with the breath of the men around the table. The pigs kick the back of their chairs in anxiety, still stunned by my question. The reptilians, alert and painfully waiting, hiss in delight. Their eyes are a spitting image of the crimson blood on the Union Jack; the straight lines of a racist genocide on the Stars’N’Stripes of the flag of White America. Those flags are better off burnt to a crisp. America is a seedy, rat infested pigsty. It seems that the UK is owned by the USWA (United States of White America).
But what did you expect from these countries of undeserving wealth, dirty politicians and a hierarchy of torture and suffering? A round of applause?
“Anyway,” says the host, trying to change the conversation. “I’ve heard about some people that are to join us tomorrow. They are to be inspect everything is alright.”
“Advisors?” The fat man asks.
“Indeed. And we have to be HONEST. Key word here.”
“Come on! Can I tell one lie?”
“No Mr. Rick you may not.”
“Not one? Please! What else am I to do?”
“Look Peter: this is important.”
“So we basically tell them who we are?”
“This is why I shouldn’t-“
“So we are to tell them our motives?”
“No.” His eyes get wider and more fuelled with rage.
“Our plans?”
“No!” His voice rises like a thermometer in an active volcano.
“Our policies?” This was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“P. RICK!” Peter Rick stops for a moment. The pig’s balls have dropped.
“You want to know everything, Peter?! I’ll tell you. You are the most idiotic, most anti social, humourless, spineless, benign, perverted, senseless, patriotic, fascist person I have ever met!” Stunned silence.
“So we all are!” Laughter erupts from the pigs and the snakes, and harmony is restored in the fantasy world of the infection. That joke kills everything, and more than you will ever know. The dinner is served finally. The swines roll around in mud and the snakes continue to poison the ill-fated and constrict the unlucky.
It’s getting darker outside. I turn my attention to the silence at night, to give insight into the perverted gardens outside the derelict houses. Utopia is such a drag. I might as well restore order in the USSR than be stuck in this rotting stench of a café. The possibilities, the war with words, the nostalgia. Memory lane is fractured; I can no longer remember a single thing I ever did when I was younger. But perhaps that’s why everyone else here with me turned into what they did: we were born to forget.
The past no longer has any value- history is the thing that comes out of the back end of a politician’s body. It is wasted matter, and it shows. The frequent reappearance
and relapse of time sets in to me, but not to anybody else. Everyone is guilty of something; everyone has their own problems. I have found it a pain to tell the truth to others. This is what life does to you.
The policies are a mockery, but as I open my mouth to speak once again, I noticed the same sign again. This time the first line shadows over me, illuminated in fascism:
THERE ARE NO SAINTS ALLOWED IN PARLIAMENT
YOU MAY NOT SPEAK YOUR MIND IN ANY GIVEN WAY
YOU MAY ONLY SPEAK THE MIND OF THE CHOSEN PERSON
YOU ARE NOT OF ANY SIGNIFICANCE TO LIFE OR TO EARTH
YOU ARE OF WALKING ABORTION LIKE THE OTHERS
NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SMELL THE FUTURE
YOU MAY NOT SPEAK YOUR MIND IN ANY GIVEN WAY
YOU MAY ONLY SPEAK THE MIND OF THE CHOSEN PERSON
YOU ARE NOT OF ANY SIGNIFICANCE TO LIFE OR TO EARTH
YOU ARE OF WALKING ABORTION LIKE THE OTHERS
NOW SHUT THE FUCK UP AND SMELL THE FUTURE
The only saint I know doesn’t even exist. The only saint I know doesn’t help anyone. He just sits in the sky, expecting you to do his dirty work. But I mustn’t mention it: capital punishment may be in place once more in our heads. The fat man sucks on the pale wine once more, drops the glass, and sits up.
“Are any of you married,” he asks. “Any one has a wife?”
“The only good women I know of are the ones who’ll do anything.”
“So…prostitutes?” The serpents cackle while the pigs talk amongst themselves. A serpent slithers across the table to speak, in the light of sexism and misogyny. He opens his mouth, and begins to tell this own fable of hate towards love.
“Prostitutes indeed. The oldest profession. I wish that all women were prostitutes. You see, I am married myself. My wife is the type of person who would revolt you even if I showed you a picture of her. I regret even offering to help her up the stairs when we were at Cambridge! She only really wants me to tell her that I love her. But how could I lie to her? I only lie to people I know. It’s very depressing to know I am forced by marriage to cherish a long and forgotten daffodil of decay.
“Did you hear about what happened a few weeks back? I walked into her, praying to someone! Must’ve been me on the vodka again, but she was praying to someone. I can’t remember the name. It had one syllable, and was three letters. For all I know she could be praying to some working class slave called Dan. I was furious at her inside, but as marriage tells us, never lie. How can I? I’m a politician for crying out loud" We all start to giggle.
“So, we kiss and make up, and there she goes again the next day! She has this book, which reads like a fairytale for scum. She calls it holy; I call it idiotic. But, what do I know? I don’t want to raise my family in a household where a book is in place. But, again, what do I know? For all I know, Atheism is not the thing for her. Are you fucking kidding me?! I have to raise my children like they are people I want to destroy and put down?! Bullshit! At least with prostitutes I don’t have to worry about that kind of thing. It doesn’t matter who they suck up to. It only matters who they suck off. How about some more drinks?”
As the viper finishes his tale everyone cheers, clinking their glasses together, and they continue to discuss throughout the night. The wine just got even more bitter from there.
