Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 15

You know that book everyone's talking about, ignore it, you don't follow the crowd, read this one, be different and be the only one ;)

Preface

November 1973


"David, tell me what went wrong."

David Elazar, Chief of General Staff sighed and shook his head.

He faced the speaker, his leader, Golda Meir, the Prime Minister, and raised his hands, a plea for her forgiveness, "It was close this time, for Israel and her people, we came close to total defeat."

"I disagree, David," this said robustly by the man standing by the window, his back to them both. Moshe Dayan, Minister of Defence making a, not unexpected, defence of his own strategy. He continued, his voice raised, "They made gains yes, but they were never going to win, and in that event, we always had the nuclear option."

Elazar shot back quickly, although his voice was still soft, "I don't know how you can say this, how could we use this option? This nuclear? The world would have turned its back on us. I say that without Sharon's victory all would have gone against us."

"Besides which," said Golda Meir, "the world doesn't yet know about our nuclear capacity and it is our policy to ensure that situation remains for as long as possible."

"Exactly," said Elazar.

"We won," said Dayan, his voice heavy with disdain, "because we were always going to win."

"If you had....." began Elazar.

"Gentlemen, please," the woman interjected quietly; out-ranking them both, she had no need to raise her voice, "the war is over."

Both men turned in deference to their Prime Minister as she continued smoothly, "I have been speaking with some of our main political and economic supporters and we are in agreement, the conduct of the war has lessons for the military and those lessons will be learned."

She looked meaningfully at Dayan, then continued with scarcely a pause, "Our concern and the concern of future leaders should revolve around the global impact."

"Israel has reasserted herself," said Dayan, steadfastly ignoring any implied criticism about lessons to be learned, "we are still a powerful, global force."

"I have to agree with Moshe," said Elazar, his voice betraying how unusual an occurrence this was, "although we came close to losing, we are still here and the world has learned to recognise the superiority of our forces, if not our tactics."

Golda Meir persisted, "There is a bigger picture, one that I have been forced to encompass in my thinking. Here in Israel we were not so aware of the effect of the OPEC sanctions, but in the West and in Europe particularly, I am told the impact has been quite devastating."

Both men shook their heads; the impact on the West a small thing compared to the fate of their beloved country. Elazar spoke quietly for both of them, "It is Israel that nearly died."

"Of course that is true, David, however, I am told the consequences for the West were extreme, and therein lies both our weakness and our strength."

Dayan and Elazar looked confused.

This time it was Moshe Dayan who spoke, "We won this war. By the time they try again we will be so powerful that they will be slaughtered in the deserts."

"I am not talking of another war," said the Prime Minister, her voice steady and resolute. "We are weakened by the threat the OPEC countries hold over the West, can you not see that? When OPEC reduced oil production it brought the West to their knees; power cuts, inflation, strikes. A myriad list of reasons why the West will one day turn its back on Israel."

"Then we need to ensure our intelligence is of a high standard," said Dayan, "assassinate any who are planning to attack us or affect oil production."

Golda shook her head. Her smile was tolerant of the fiery man, nonetheless her voice took on a firm, lecturing tone, "Peak Oil is the term given to the efficiency of the world's oil wells, Moshe. When maximum efficiency is reached in every field and world demand exceeds supply then we will be in the situation recently experienced where shortages will begin to influence Western political decisions related to the whole of the Middle East."

"That sounds like a nightmare scenario," said Elazar. "No right-minded leader would risk his premiership for the sake of another country. It's the end of Israel."

"It's not imminent, David. We have decades before that point is reached so we have time to plan."

"What do we do?" demanded Dayan, "We can't put oil where none exists. We can't sit here and wait for that day."

"It is simple, Moshe. Before it becomes an issue we must have destroyed the capability of our enemies to wage war. Furthermore, we must control their oil fields. That way we ensure our allies remain such."

"The world won't allow us to do that," said Elazar.

"No need, David, we will get an in depth report in the coming weeks but the thinking is that we get the Americans and the UN to do it for us."

"How? Why would they do that for us?" asked Elazar.

Golda smiled, "It is feasible if we think along the following lines; America allows its people to hold dual citizenship, yes?"

She waited for their nods of agreement before continuing, "So over the next 20 to 30 years we must ensure that as many Israelis as possible rise to positions of power within the US political and economic establishment. Once we've achieved that we will be able to dictate their foreign policy."

"Impossible," said Dayan.

She ignored his interruption, "We must ensure that there is an Israeli lobby group in every western democracy. We must back all sides in an election, that way whoever wins will be beholden to our supporters."

"Now that is possible," said Elazar, his expression musing.

"Imperative," she said, "if Israel is to survive."

"But even America cannot declare war on the Arab nations, the world wouldn't stand for it," said Dayan, "the Russians would go to war over it."

"All things are possible," she demurred, "as long as we make sure that America is seen as the victim and any response is by way of self defence."

"This cannot be done," said Dayan.

"It can be," said Elazar, "if approached from the right angle."

Golda Meir continued firmly, "We must gain complete control of the media, both Hollywood and their news outlets."

"That way we could pull all the strings from here," said Elazar. He was pacing now, excitement in his voice.

"But how do you make the US appear a victim to the entire world?" asked Dayan, "She is a super power and no-one can possibly hurt her."

"People will believe what we want them to," said the Prime Minister, her voice steely.

Elazar agreed readily, "It's worked in the past. We just need a workable plan, one that is adaptable to any situation."

"And one so unbelievable it will never be questioned," added Golda Meir, "for the bigger the lie...."

"The more they will believe it," said Dayan.

Cheers

Arun

Corpalism - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Uprising', 'From Democracy to Dictatorship' & 'Aftermath' - books 1, 2 & 3 in the series

“Hello, fellow delegates, my name is Stephanie White and I’m standing for Parliament in the London Borough of Wandsworth. At 24 I’m one of the youngest delegates and I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

She smiled at the laughter.

“I’m also one of the least experienced so you’ll be pleased to hear I’m sticking to what I know! I was born and raised in Clapham Junction and where I live now 6 out of 10 young people are unemployed, and 4 out of the 6 are women. I work in a shoe shop and as a single Mum I consider myself extremely fortunate to have a job.”

Steph looked around the hall, “I won’t take up much of your time; I’m just here to highlight the issue of women’s rights.”

The women present cheered and clapped. The men looked immediately beleaguered.

“I know a lot of people think there’s no issue for women and I also know, from personal experience, that not all of these people are men” there was more laughter, this time from the men, “I know a lot of women who would rather not discuss women’s rights, who are quite alright thank you very much so it’s not them I am speaking for here, but for the majority of women who are NOT alright.”

She took a sip of water, her mouth uncomfortably dry, she’d been advised against the coffee earlier and now wished she’d taken the advice. “I know that a lot of people think that things are equal in the work environment but they’re not, because it is a fact that in many instances a woman doing the same job as a man will be paid considerably less even though it’s been illegal since 1970 to treat women less favourably than men in the pay stakes.”

She sipped again, “Women at work have to work harder than a man just to get noticed. A woman has to butch up and out macho the men to get noticed, in essence she will have to become a man. Believe me I know, the shoe business is a cut throat world!” There was a burst of laughter; what she lacked in age, she made up for in cheek.

“Admit it ….we’ve all seen it… women these days, they’ve become men. They out drink men, they out shout men, they out party men, they do all of these things because being a woman is seen as being weak, they have to be tough and macho to be thought of as any good… but why? Why does a woman have to be more like a man to have her opinions, her views, her thoughts valued? What’s the deal here?”

She paused to let the question sink in, and in truth to steady her breathing; the size of this crowd was awesome. Marissa murmured, “Go for it, girl” and Stephanie grinned.

“The answer’s quite simple; women have not been accepted for who they are. They have had to change, to adapt, and to become manlier to compete with men. Is this really a free system where all people are treated as equal and rewarded for their efforts and ideas or is it a system where the biggest, loudest, most hectoring voice is heard and that voice is always the voice of a man or a macho woman? Are we allowing ourselves as women to be denied true equality in our own right as women?”

Her words gained her general nods of approval round the room, even some men, presumably distracted by reminiscences of acquiescent, womanly women, were nodding happily.

“Why can’t we behave like women and have the same chances and rights as men? We form half of the world’s population, do you realize that? We are half of the world’s population and we are treated as second class citizens, we cannot get the proper recognition at work, in the office, in the board room, in the cabinet anywhere.”

She glanced behind her and received a nod from Catherine; they’d talked beforehand and, when she’d finally opened up, Catherine had told her how long it had taken her to get a headship when her university contemporaries (male) had achieved it years earlier.

Marissa had quite readily said much the same thing when quizzed about her accountancy opportunities.

“To be honest, we women are our own worst enemies. When we gain the top spot we don’t offer a hand to another, rival woman – think of the Iron Lady – how many women in her cabinet? Let’s face it, we aren’t united, women don’t fight as one entity. We fight for our own cause, for our own family, our own interests. We’re not trained since babyhood like men to stand together, to fight for our rights as a group, as a marginalised section of society. Well, perhaps we should stop and think for a bit, stop and look at how the men have done it, stop and see what unity can do for us; we should unite as one and say no more of this. We should learn from the Dagenham women that united we are strong[1].”

She took heart from the applause that followed that comment, “But the problem is; there is always the woman willing to sleep her way to the top, to stitch up her competition, stab another woman in the back. This type of woman has no moral compass, no conscious sense of anything other than her own desire to get on."

She waved away the argument she knew would be coming, "Now I know there are similar types in the male world but frankly, that’s not our concern, our concern as women should be how we prepare for the fight, how we prepare for the cause, how we set out our stall and how we go about uniting in the coming struggle. We need to consider how we are treated and how we are looked upon. We should look at the lack of respect, the lack of courtesy, the lack of opportunity, the lack of reward that exists just because of our gender. It has nothing to do with our minds, with our imagination, with our abilities, with our intellectual capacity; it is all just because of our gender. Do you realise there is more concern today about racism than about the sexploitation of women?”

Steph waited for her words to settle with the audience before continuing, “Do you realise that? The media, the internet, twitter, everyone, including women, everyone is more concerned with how black footballers are treated on the pitch than with how all women are treated everywhere. Do you realise this? And do you know why? Because the footballers are men, that’s why. I love football, by the way … I just want to put that on the table, but I won’t take my son to a game because of the foul language and use of the ‘C’ word.”

She shook her head slightly at the gasp that went round the room, “you’re shocked, yet that word is used on the terraces every Saturday all round the country to insult males and as long as you don’t attach ‘black’ to it, you’re fine.”

She stared round the hall, deliberately seeking out the men, fixing them with a look, “How is it you can call a footballer, of any colour, the ‘C’ word, you can call him an ‘effing c***’ if you want to, but you can’t call him anything racial. Do you realise what that means? Do the women here realise what that means? It means that society and the law backs a man’s right to call another man a ‘c***’ and it’s OK, why? Why is it ok to use a slang term for the female sexual organ as a way of insulting a man? A deep insult at that! Anybody? Because in a man’s world women are seen as less than men, because women are seen by everyone, including women, as being less, as having less weighty opinions, less weighty views, women are just seen as fluff whose only purpose is for sex or to sexually gratify men. Other than that women can go to the back of the cave and wait until they are needed again to satisfy man’s sexual urges. Well that’s not the way it should be.”

There was some uncomfortable shuffling of feet and throat clearing, a smattering of clapping.

“I realise I must seem very radical.” Steph dropped her head for a moment and the room went very quiet, she counted five slowly then lifted her head, her eyes blazing, “Well if that’s what I need to be, then radical it is! I mentioned ‘sexploitation’ earlier and I used the term deliberately. One of the things we have to change is women’s role in the entertainments industry. Why is it that it isn’t good enough for a female singer just to be a good singer? Why does she have to be a sex symbol as well? Why isn’t it enough for a woman to have a good voice, to write powerful lyrics, why must she appear semi naked in her videos? Why must a female singer pose semi naked for hundreds of media shots? Why must a female singer sell her soul to the industry to sell her music?"

She stopped speaking abruptly, aware she was being controversial, that such a divisive message wasn’t to be readily accepted by this audience, by any audience.

She’d asked her boyfriend, Donny to come for moral support and knew he would be groaning somewhere.

She took a deep breath, shook her hair off her face and continued, “The implication is that if a woman doesn’t sell her body then her songs won’t sell. Rubbish…Music is an audio entertainment, there are no videos on the radio, there is no video playing when you put the CD in your player. A song is a song, a good song is a good song, regardless of whether or not the female singer is attractive, semi naked or fully-clothed, the whole industry has been abused and women have been abused by it.”

There was more applause now, she’d moved on to a safer subject it seemed, she continued “and it’s totally unacceptable to say that it’s just sex and that in today’s market sex sells, it’s not sex… it’s sexploitation, it’s abuse of women, it’s another example of where a woman’s contribution isn’t valued for what it is, another example of where it isn’t enough to be talented, it isn’t enough for a woman to have a good voice, it isn’t enough for a woman to be creative she has to be manipulated, controlled by men who only want her to be a sexual symbol.”

She paused again, “And then there’s acting, TV and films, why is it that in films and TV programmes today a woman always has to take her clothes off? Why is it that a female star has to be attractive and when she’s no longer considered so her roles start drying up? Why are there so few strong parts for women? Why is it that most women are chosen for their physical appearance rather than their acting ability?”

Someone shouted from the audience, and she rebutted with, “Don’t say Meryl Streep at me – she’s one woman out of hundreds of men, that’s why she wins all the female Oscars” laughter and applause greeted that snappy rejoinder, “Is it the same for men? Of course not, male actors can go on into their 90s but most female actors are finished when the first wrinkles and grey hairs start appearing. Then the movie making industry starts plying the halls for the next young piece of female meat to parade around on our screens, why? Why do we females accept this double standard? Why do we accept the notion that we’re nothing unless we’re young and attractive?”

Steph asked the question well aware that she was very young and attractive herself at this point, “I know that we are our own worst enemies in that it’s women singers and actors who are giving in to these demands, who accept it as part and parcel of the way things are. I realise that we won’t really win this war unless women in the industry unite and are prepared to stick together to stand against the sexploitation. I also understand that most women don’t start to think like that until their looks start to fade; then they’re willing to make a stand.”

She sighed loudly and was rewarded with amused laughter, “you know what I’m going to say before I say it, don’t you… by that time they don’t need you, they aren’t going to listen, they’ve found your replacement …another new young thing and the new sex goddess isn’t in the least bit interested in fighting for women’s rights, not if it will block her route to fame and glory and wealth… but that’s exactly what they must do, that’s exactly where it must start…we must unite; we must recognise we are half the world’s population, half the world’s work force, half of a partnership. We have power, we have influence and we can make things change. We must all stick together and we must demand equality of the mind, equality for who we are and what we are, then and only then will our thoughts matter, will our efforts count, then and only then can we as women be accepted for our minds and our personalities, then and only then can a woman really be equal for until that time occurs women will always be second class citizens who are just used and abused by the system and that will only encourage the average man in the street to see women as less than themselves."

"I’m Stephanie White, thank you for listening.”

Hope you have a good weekend

Cheers for reading

Arun

Insurrection - it's a modern day revolution - by Arun D Ellis - book 4 in the Corpalism series

Milton Friedman's misfortune is that his economic policies have been tried
John K Galbraith

The Preacher stood in front of the studio audience. He'd come far since those days on London Bridge, and the empty seats in the old, draughty theatre. Now he had a universal platform; he was on TV and he could access more people than he had ever dreamt possible. Was what he had to say worth risking that? Was Barry right; he should temper his comments, consider what was at stake? If he went ahead with his idea for tonight's show it could all end. He rubbed his face, the mandatory studio make-up irritating his skin. No more time for doubt; he was live.

He didn't bother with the formalities, he went straight in, "Things that bother me, that drive me to distraction, that make me insane, that have me raging at the TV or throwing clenched fists at imaginary targets," he paused, "I used to have a Christian name but now I have a forename, why? Why? Because of the Muslims, because they don't have Christian names we can't have Christian names. Does that make sense to you? There are over 55 million Anglo Saxon Britons in this country; we make up nearly 90% of the population yet because of the Muslims, who make up less than 5%, we no longer have a Christian name, we have a forename."
He resumed pacing, "If they wanted to make the Muslims feel more comfortable why didn't they just put the option, 'Christian name or forename,' on every form?" he stopped and looked out at the camera's red eye, "Makes sense to me."
The studio audience, having started out a little uneasy, was starting to relax.

"Another thing that bothers me, I'm English, born in England, I've always lived in England. I love this country. My ancestors on my father's side are all English, admittedly there has been some degradation on my mother's side, she's Scottish you see," he was laughing now, "I have Scottish family and they're always giving it all that about us English, so ignore that." He continued pacing, "I love England, I support all English club sides when they're playing other countries. Where the Olympics are concerned I support all Britons, even Scottish ones, but the thing that bothers me is that when I complete a form I want to tick the box marked English or British, but I can only find UK National. What the hell is a UK National?" he didn't wait for an answer, "Apparently it is a term used to cover British subjects, but what does that mean?

The audience waited, they wanted to know.

"Well, it means you and me and ex-pats overseas, but it also covers immigrants, asylum seekers and under the Borders, Citizenship and Immigration Act of 2009 anyone who has been here for 5 years," he raised the palms of his hands, "these people are all UK nationals."

He started to pace, "My ancestors have been here for thousands of years, as I am sure have many of yours. My ancestors fought to keep these islands British, to keep them for us, but our leaders, our politicians have conspired to give away our country to foreigners," he paused, "you thought you were British, that you were English or Scottish or Welsh or Irish but you're not. You thought you had a special meaning, that you belonged to a special group of people, that you meant something, well you don't, you're not special, you're just a UK National, the same as any Johnny-come-lately foreigner who turns up at passport control, who wanders in with no empathy and no love of this country, no love of its history, its people, its culture, its heritage, its customs, its religion, its armed forces or its sports teams. Your rights are being eradicated in favour of foreign nationals who have countries of their own to go back to," his voice rose in a shout, "YOU COUNT FOR NOTHING! And you have nowhere to go. This is it."

He paused, the unforgiving studio lights catching a glistening in his eyes, he swallowed hard and continued, "Another thing that bothers me, every poster, every advert, every Government issue leaflet, every NHS leaflet has 1 token white person, all the others are black and Asian, Sikhs and Muslims, Chinese or whatever, in spite of the fact that there are 55 MILLION OF US!"

He picked up the pace, "Now I'm willing to bet that if you find yourself agreeing with what I've just said, if it annoys you as much as it does me then you will find yourself worrying that you're racist. I'll bet that most of you are thinking that about me right now, 'he's racist' so, I will answer that burning question, 'No, I'm not racist'. And on that topic, isn't it funny how one always has to say, 'I'm not a racist but....' You can't say anything about nationhood without feeling the pressure that someone is going to call you racist."

He stopped and stared out into the audience, his concern evident. They looked pressured, but had the safety of silence knowing his questions were rhetorical. A few nodded discreetly but several others seemed to be looking worriedly at black or Muslim members of the audience.

"You are a racist," yelled out a young white male sitting in the centre of a multi-ethnic group.

"I'm a patriot and I want to maintain England's Englishness." Some cheered, others, emboldened by the heckler, booed. "Ask yourself, why are the people coming here so intent on making this country a facsimile of the one they chose to leave? Who gave them leave to change our mores and culture in order to feel more at home? Why are we, the indigenous population finding our rights eroded by laws designed to prevent us raising our objections?"

He let them stew on that for a few moments and then continued, "Precedents from history for you; after the collapse of the Hapsburg Empire in 1918 various countries were created out of the collection of small states and principalities, countries such as Yugoslavia, made up of Croats, Serbs, Bosnians amongst others; Czechoslovakia, comprising Czechs, Hungarians, Germans, Poles Slovakians and Ukrainians; Poland was re-created and given back a huge slice of eastern Prussia, the population being made up of Poles, Ukrainians, Belarussians, Lithuanians, Czechs and Germans."

He walked to the back of the stage and took a sip of water, then walked quickly back, "Thus, a mish-mash of countries were created, populated by dozens of different nationalities, with different religious beliefs; Jews, Christians, Muslims, Greek Orthodox, who all wanted their culture and their religion to be paramount and who wanted their language to take precedence. A great deal of ethnic cleansing took place during World War II, concealed by the war and nothing to do with the Germans. In the latter part of the 20th century Yugoslavia broke apart and descended into the brutal ethnic cleansing that we all saw on our TV screens. In my view, this is where we are headed if immigration to this small island is not curbed."

He paused, "But why are we in this muddle? What's its origin? I believe it is linked not only to the EU but also to the Thatcher and Blair years." He took a deep breath; now was the moment of truth. Barry was right, it was one thing saying this sort of thing in the confines of a theatre albeit being recorded on iPhone and the like, it was quite another saying it on live TV. He faced the camera, "I think we need look no further for our answer than Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph," he paused, there was no reaction; no-one knew what he was going to say, "and I think it is primarily because of their Jewish religion and their belief in a form of Jewish economics."

There was an uneasy stirring in the audience, this was very unsettling for some of those present, "But don't take my word for it, listen to Milton Friedman on YouTube, or read his presentation, 'Capitalism and the Jews,' he is more than willing to propound his view that the Jewish form of capitalism can only thrive in a totally free market and it is this idea that lead directly to the neo Liberal policies of the last three decades." He paced a little, he knew the danger of the line he was treading, "Friedman promotes the free market economy completely and I believe that his economic principles have been adapted to form the basis of the free movement of labour across European borders culminating in the aberration known as multiculturalism."

There was a lot of murmuring; some seemed resolved to leave, others to fidgeting.

"Friedman believed in a free market, a totally free movement of capital and total freedom to make as much profit as possible. Again don't take my word for it, listen to Friedman, read what Sir Keith Joseph wrote. They preached less state control so that the individual could be free to do what they wanted economically. As a result of his ideas, in both Britain and the US, we have an economy run along Neo Liberal lines, the aims of which are to make as much profit as possible for the shareholder with scant regard for the state or the national economy. The argument being that those things will look after themselves. Tell me, how can things look after themselves when the rich offshore their profits and evade paying taxes, refuse to contribute to the rest of society? How can things look after themselves when the rich pay themselves 400 times as much as the average worker? How can things look after themselves when it's the law of the jungle that presides here? Not the Nazi law of survival of the fittest; this is Friedman's law of survival of the greediest. And I ask you, how can we defend ourselves against this evil when we no longer stand together but are separated by the divisive curse of multiculturalism?"

He paused for breath, then was off again, "This conforms to Friedman's teachings; the individual seeking the maximum profit for himself; off-shoring accounts is the natural thing to do, as is sending your jobs abroad to dictatorships where wages are a pittance, as is running the NHS into the ground until it can no longer function, to privatise it and deny us free health care at the point of need. It is free enterprise capitalism that allows them to run down social services, abandon the people, abandon the nation state, abandon the concept of Britishness."

He paused, then changed tack, "It is quite natural that people from countries poorer than ours should want to come here. In of itself, this is not a problem; we have been absorbing small and regulated numbers of immigrants for years. What causes the problem is when the numbers are unregulated, when those coming in are so poor that they will work here for a pittance, when the numbers are so great that whole towns are changed irrevocably. This is happening because the powers that be want us to be swamped, want to destroy our culture, our sense of community and who now aim to destroy our national fabric so that they can fully command our economy and achieve even greater wealth at our expense via the doctrine of Neo Liberalism."

He looked exhausted, the studio lights unforgiving, visible sweat on his face. He spoke more gently now, as if conserving energy, "Friedman explained that his economic policies had been those of the Jews for two thousand years and that they were the most effective policies. This, he said, is why Jews have thrived everywhere. However, he seems to have forgotten that Jesus was a Jew who lived two thousand years ago and he was fundamentally the first Socialist."

His voice took on a desperate note, "The realities of what Friedman and Joseph preached are everywhere around us. This is why our society is collapsing, our social services shrinking and our economy is in ruins. It's why the NHS will be privatised, and it's why this country is being swamped by cheap foreign labour."
"I beg you to turn away from the teachings of Friedman and Joseph and instead look to the lessons taught by the other great Jewish leader, Jesus Christ."

Then he was gone from the stage

Cheers

Arun

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Other books in the Corpalism series

3 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Two days later Terry was escorted onto a prison bus, destination unknown. Wrists handcuffed in front of him, with his feet chained, he was directed to the back of the bus where he was flanked by two armed guards. “You sit down and you don’t speak,” said one of the guards.

“Why am I chained?” The question popped out by itself; the chains were the ultimate degradation, a foot length of cold steel actually clanking as he shuffled like something off the corniest convict film. “I haven’t done anything, all I did was get sacked.”

“And the P118?” asked the first guard, “and the riot you caused in the station.”

“We know how to deal with argumentative fuck wits like you,” hissed the second guard, illustrating the point by driving the butt of his pump shotgun into Terry’s thigh. “Not another word ‘til we reach Middlesbrough.”

“Shit,” hissed Terry, “not the Boro?” He’d been hoping for one of the ‘just outside London’ sinks like Brum for no good reason other than nearness to home. ‘Boro’ was a world away.

“What did we tell you?” hissed the first guard as he thrust his elbow sharply into Terry’s stomach, effectively silencing him.

∞

“Hello Mr. Jones.” Terry flicked a glance at the young lady opposite, sort of smiled and nodded. He’d been escorted to the local Relocations operations office and been kept waiting for 3 hours before meeting her; his state-allocated counsellor, Debby. “Have you been fighting?”

He stared at her; he’d survived the 8 days incarceration, in what he’d been told was one of Middlesbrough’s roughest prisons, by being funny, something he’d found useful at boarding school until his first black belt rendered such tactics unnecessary. Whilst in the prison he’d kept his martial art skills under wraps; feeling his way, thinking it best to avoid attention. His speed had come in handy, mostly in deflecting blows when a few hard nuts hadn’t appreciated his humour and in generally keeping out of people’s way. Not much use when it came to the screws though; enclosed spaces and mob handed.

“No.”

“Oh, but the cuts and bruises, and your eye?” asked Debby

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

“Oh!” she said, “Are you saying the police did this?” She reached for her notepad and began writing.

“No” replied Terry, hastily “No, I’m not.”

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

“If you have a complaint against…” continued Debby.

“If I have a complaint against anyone, especially the police,” said Terry, “I’m not going to tell you, am I.”

“But you have to,” said Debby, “everything has to be logged so it can be investigated.”

“Well I don’t have a complaint,” said Terry, “I fell.”

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

“But that’s not what you just said,” pressed Debby.

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

“You do know it’s an offence to make a false accusation against the police, don’t you,” pressed Debby.

“I haven’t made an accusation against the police, false or otherwise,” said Terry.

“But you said it was police hospitality thus implying they had beaten you up.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Er…yes you did,” pressed Debby, “I’ve made a quick note of the time on my pad and I can play the conversation back for you if you like.” Terry frowned. “Everything in this meeting is filmed and recorded,” she said, pointing to a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“Great,” moaned Terry, “look I didn’t mean anything ok, the police were fantastic, they made me feel right at home. I fell, that’s all.”

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Debby stared at Terry for a good 30 seconds before proceeding. “Ok, as you know, you are here in Middlesbrough because your debts exceed the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the employment act, which for your information is….”

“Yes I know,” interrupted Terry, “£25,000, thank you.”

“In which case you’ll know you face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence,” continued Debby.

“Yes,” said Terry.

“Which carries a minimum fine of £300,000.” pressed Debby.

“£300,000?” blurted Terry, “no-one told me that! How the fuck’m I meant to get £300,000? On top of what I already owe, how’m I supposed to pay that?”

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

“I heard…but 25 yrs and what the fuck’s social labour?”

“Please modulate your language, Mr. Jones. It does not help your cause” she nodded at him, a mild frown furrowing her brow. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Basically we will find you work and all your wages will be paid into Central Services who will refund your debtors.”

“And what do I get?” asked Terry incredulously.

“Nothing until your debts are paid,” said Debby.

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

“We will put you up in social housing and provide you with the basics, food and heating, social welfare, that sort of thing…for which you will of course be charged.”

“What... and this goes on for...?” he spluttered, unable to finish the sentence.

“For 25 yrs, yes. Galaxy has provided a calculation….”

“But I’ll be nearly 50 when I get shot of it all…that can’t be right...”

“…of your total indebtedness with a projection of your social welfare debts….”

“Oh let me guess,” said Terry, “I mean what with the £170,000 I already owe….”

“I think you’ll find that’s £178,500, not including interest…”

“Interest?” he squeaked.

“…..at 3% above base rate which is currently at 9% so today your interest is 12% but that’s probably going to go up ½% in the coming months as most forecasts reckon the Bank of England will raise base rates in a month or so.” Debby finished in a triumphant burst.

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

“This isn’t anything to be taken lightly, Mr. Jones.”

“I know,” said Terry, “I was being facetious.”

“I wouldn’t make a habit of that, not in your position.” Terry sneered again. “As I was saying,” pressed Debby after a brief pause, “you owe £178,500 already, plus the fine of £300,000 plus a projected welfare debt of £130,000 with interest at 12% over 25 years totaling £1,825,500….” Terry leaned back and burst out laughing “Mr. Jones, this is very serious.”

“Oh yes,” said Terry, “it’s very serious, it’s so serious it’s insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“You’re trying to sting me for how much? It’s got to be over 2 million pounds, you tell me that’s not insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“I mean, I lost my job, I was late a few times and just because some crappy Government organisation reckons I’m low on points I get screwed over by the state for 2 million, well, fuck you.”

“Language, Mr. Jones and actually it is £2,434,000.” said Debby, “My advice to you, Mr. Jones is that you need to accept you brought this on yourself. The bottom line is you have proven yourself to be a poor employee….”

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

“Yes Mr. Jones,” said Debby, “a good many people would’ve loved to have had the opportunities you’ve had, it’s no-one’s fault but your own that you squandered them.”

“I was late a few times!” snapped Terry, “How can they do this to me, it’s bloody ridiculous.”

“It is Justice, Mr. Jones,” replied Debby, “the world doesn’t owe you a living. When a company agrees to employ you they place themselves at a disadvantage in that they don’t know what kind of person you are and they have to trust….”

“I’ll have you know I work very hard, I shifted more work than most of my colleagues, I was just late a few times and I didn’t suck up to the management.”

“Of course,” said Debby, “it was the management’s and your work colleagues’ fault, I’ve heard it all before. Isn’t it funny how it’s always someone else’s fault. People like you think that the world owes them a living, you want an easy ride whilst everyone else works hard.”

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

“Of course you did,” said Debby, “but hey, you were sacked for tardiness, funny that.”

Terry gritted his teeth, he couldn’t afford to lose it with her completely.

She continued, “Your employer was good enough to give you the opportunity to prove your worth to society; employed you, paid you, got you on the property ladder and this is how you repay them.”

She shuffled her papers and then left the room. After 30 minutes she returned with a cup of coffee; she obviously took her counseling position seriously. Terry smiled nastily, “Back so soon.”

“You are to be housed in a one bedroom flat,” said Debby. “With an open plan kitchen and lounge and very unusually, this flat comes with its own bathroom.”

Terry pulled a face, “I was hoping for a separate dining room and maybe a guest room.”

Debby ignored him, “It’ll be furnished with everything you need.” She answered his unspoken question, “Bed, wardrobe, sofa, 12” TV, kitchen table and chair and basic dinner set.”

“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.
Debby pulled a fake grin.

“This is the address, your front door key, your bus fare and a week’s sub money,” said Debby, standing to leave, “we found a place for you with a local sanitation company, you start next week and the money will be docked from your first week’s wages. Enjoy.”

Terry pulled a fake grin.

Cheers

Arun








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2 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Terry slumped into his settee and started flicking channels, more for something to do than actually find something to watch, he would probably channel hop for a good couple of hours.

It was ironic that under other circumstances he’d have been glad of a few spare hours to run through his patterns; it would have surprised Peter Illyffe and his work colleagues to know that as a Tae Kwon Do 4th Dan he trained regularly. However, abruptly out of work and awaiting re-location to God knows where he didn’t really feel like committing time to any particular activity.

The TV went dead at the precise moment the phone rang, “Terence Jones?”

“Terry,” he corrected, “I prefer Terry.”

“Mr. Jones,” said the woman on the other end, “my name is Delia Helm and I’m phoning from Central Services. We note that you were dismissed from Peter Brooke’s redeployment agency today and as a result are due to be relocated…”

“Well yeah,” said Terry, “but that was only about 5 minutes ago and….”

“From our records it was 2 hours and 15 minutes ago,” continued Delia, “and as a result of your dismissal and your financial situation we’re terminating all services with immediate effect.”

“What?” the word came out as a gasp, “All services?? But what does that mean?”

“It means that until you have repaid the £30,000 you owe your creditors you will be unable to take advantage of any services offered within the UK.”

“What?”

“We have deactivated the purchasing power of your chip,” she paused, “and we will take possession of your flat and its contents today.”

“But you can’t do that!”

“Please don’t shout at me, Mr. Jones or I will have to raise a P118 which will be escalated to your local law enforcement officer.”

He fell silent awaiting the next hammer blow; he knew the drill, but not the detail nor had he anticipated the speed and in any case, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Your flat and its contents will be auctioned this afternoon and the funds raised will go to settle some of your debts. For your information I can confirm that Galaxy have estimated that we will raise £1,500 on your possessions and £500,000 on the sale of your flat. However, as you are aware we are currently in a recession which means the market value of your flat is around £150,000 less than you originally paid for it…”

“Oh don’t give me that...” snapped Terry.

“As you had a 100% mortgage you will owe your bank the balance of £150,000 which plus the £30,000 sundry debts minus the £1,500 obtained from the sale of your possessions means you will be looking at an overall debt of approximately £178,500.”

“What!”

“As this sum exceeds the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the Employment Act” she continued relentlessly, “which for your information is £25,000, you will face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence.”

“You are fucking kidding!” The expletive resonated round the room.

“Mr. Jones, I warned you - I have raised a P118 reporting you to your local enforcement officer. Please do not leave the building.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” yelled Terry, “I’ll leave the bloody building if I want to.”

“Of course you must do as you wish however I should warn you that your details will have been passed to building security. The minute you step outside your flat you will be Tasered.”

“Fuck off!” shouted Terry as he hung up.

He turned and stormed to the door, opened it and stared into the hallway, ‘Tasered? Who’s going to Taser me? I can’t see anyone.’ Then for the first time he noticed a thin strip running the length of the hall on both sides of the corridor. ‘Nah, that’s just electric cable, surely?’

∞

“Right, sit over there and wait for the Duty Sergeant.”

The enforcement officer walked away leaving Terry to his own devices. He sniffed, stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled over to a long bench positioned along the hallway. He sat and stared at the posters opposite; there was a large one about securing your home, car and general neighbourhood from roaming gangs of thieves and worse. There were a couple offering rewards for stolen items, a few missing persons, some dog-eared wanted posters with photo fit pictures of some seriously scary looking blokes and then a load of what looked like internal memos.

“Jones?” Terry ignored the call: ‘make ‘em work for their money’. It was a pointless gesture; he was the only one in the corridor. “Oi, you - you deaf or just a fucking twat?” Terry sneered, still into making pointless gestures. “Get over here.” Terry unravelled himself from the bench slowly and strolled over to the counter. “Causing an affray,” said the Duty Sergeant, “carries a fine of £1,000 and compulsory 5 day incarceration.”

“I wasn’t causing an affray,” argued Terry, “I was in my own flat.”

“According to our records it’s no longer your flat.”

“It is my flat,” argued Terry. It occurred to him to wonder how he had transitioned so swiftly from an employed, reasonably pliable, rule follower into a belligerent, confrontational person with nothing to lose. Hell, he did have nothing to lose, they’d taken it all.

“Not any more it’s not.”

“But that’s got to be illegal, surely.”

“Nope, looks like you should’ve read the small print on your mortgage.” Terry gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling. “Also according to the Galaxy’s transcript of your conversation with the young lady from Central Services…...”

“Young lady?” snapped Terry, “She was abusive and rude.”

“I think not, not according to the transcript from Galaxy, which I have here if you’d care to take a look yourself.” Terry sneered. “You were the one being abusive.” Terry said nothing. “I also see that they’ve deactivated your chip.”

“So!” The bravado was patently false but he couldn’t prevent it.

“So how do you intend to pay your fine?”

“How the fuck should I know!” snapped Terry, “They’ve taken everything, they’re a bunch of thieving …”

“Enough of that or I’ll have you banged up for 10 days.”

“Oh for Christ’ sake….” hissed Terry, “what am I supposed to do? It’s not my fucking fault.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it? Mine? Or perhaps it’s the fault of the officer who arrested you? Or perhaps the young lady from Central Services….what was her name?” he murmured, scanning down the sheets in front of him, “Ah yes, Delia, was it her fault?”

“Oh, funny haha!” replied Terry, “How’s anybody meant to get on under these ridiculous rules?”

“Oh? What? You mean paying your bills?”

“I pay my bills” snapped Terry, “but on my salary and with prices being what they are how can anyone stay ahead?”

“I manage.”

“Well bully for you,” replied Terry, “but then I’m not surprised on what you lot make.” Any remnant of goodwill drained from the room like water flushing down a toilet.

“We earn our money dealing with little shits like you.”

“Really,” answered Terry, going for broke, “I thought you earned it by protecting the Aristos.”

“Enough of your fucking lip, you’re getting 10 days, 2 to be served here and 8 to be served wherever they decide to ship you …Which I really hope is going to be shitville.”

Cheers

Arun








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1 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Prologue

‘Please note, effective immediately: in order to help the nation heal its wounds after the terrible atrocity of 12/12 it has been decided that senior members of the Civil Service will adopt all 200 resultant orphans’.

Mrs. Mayweather sat at her PC and studied this, a recent email from the Home Office. She stretched her neck and rubbed her forehead, as if she didn’t have enough to contend with already. She re-read the communiqué, the directive, because let’s not kid ourselves, that’s what it was.

She looked at the seven files spread out before her; seven files representing seven children. She’d had her quota, she couldn’t argue that; eight of the 200 had been sent to St. David’s but one of them, Toby, had been adopted by his aunt in Australia. She thought quickly, was it worth making more paperwork by saying she only had 7 left? Would it earn her a black mark?

Truth be told, she was sensing an opportunity to find a good home for one of her other children; the chance of a lifetime, to be lifted out of poverty and placed into the upper echelons of society, public school, city job, a home south of the M4 Corridor …who could resist? She made up her mind; the Government had deposited eight children with her, the Government would expect eight children back and by Jove the Government was going to get what it expected. She needed a boy to replace Toby.

She got up from her desk and went across to the filing cabinet; she knew the staff mocked her behind her back but nothing on this earth would get her to go paper-free.

She pulled out two files; Johnson, Alan; 7 years old, resident for the past 4 years. He needed to get out and into a family. The Richardsons had shown interest in him, they were a decent couple and things were proceeding quite nicely. However, there’s plenty a slip ‘twixt cup and lip as her granny used to say, and you can never be sure. However, they would notice if he suddenly disappeared and could potentially make a fuss. Nothing she couldn’t handle though.

The other child, White, Robert; 8 years old, he’d arrived with the others from the 12/12 atrocity, so he had the background. Not strictly speaking an orphan; mother had sustained serious head wounds in the explosion, leaving her in a coma, no father, live-in boyfriend no longer on the scene having left when the extent of her injuries became known. There was a grandmother but she’d been deemed inappropriate, too old, by Social Services. But, no two ways about it, he was not an orphan, in the strictest sense of the word.

‘So…which one will it be?’ she mused, moving the folders around on her desk.
 


Suddenly

A man may die, nations may rise and fall,
but an idea lives on.
John F. Kennedy

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office.

He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated.” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please.” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Peter interceded. “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare, the rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity had a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly. “There was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“Parking,” said Terry, opportunistic as ever, “when are they doing something about parking?”

“As we said yesterday and the day before and, oh yes, as we’ve been saying every day in all these months since you joined us, they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you, Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.”

The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes,” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

“I know,” Terry murmured, humbly, while thinking 'yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life…'

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:10 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter, I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Terry, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.”

Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan.

“I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting.”

“Right now? Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”

Cheers

Arun








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Waiting at the bus stop outside the Relocations office; nothing if not convenient, he had time to reflect on this next stage of his life. He had few regrets; his old apartment had been nothing to write home about; the most exciting thing about it was the space it had afforded for him to train. Space well worth the distance from the office, as he’d thought at the time. Now standing here waiting for the bus that would take him to the sink estate he’d always dreaded, maybe distance should have won over space? Perhaps he could have put off this day?

The bus took him through two checkpoints and he watched carefully the verification process that allowed the transport to continue. His forearm chip could apparently be read at some distance, not requiring a scanner scrolled over it; he’d not been aware of that since previously his use of it had been to achieve access to buildings and to purchases. The process had a fairly foolproof look about it and the thought depressed him.

Deposited at the corner of Cameron St, again nothing if not convenient, he walked the length of it to get to number 300. He crossed a few side streets en route, Thatcher Close, Clegg Alley, MacMillan Mount and felt the desolation seep into him. The buildings he passed were ‘past their best’, that was the euphemistic phrase that fit most aptly. He’d relocated hundreds of people to streets just like these and was embarrassed to see, if not exactly hovels, homes that were definitely ‘past their best’. The apartment building he’d been in had been palatial in comparison.

He stared up at number 300. Now, this was squalid and no mistake; whether because he was due to go inside, to live there or whether it was a fact, but forget ‘past its best’ this one was squalid.

The square of grass that fronted the building was overgrown and littered with various objects; several tires reared up in a pile in the middle, a rusting supermarket trolley lay nearby on its side tangled with weeds, an old toilet posed near the front door of the building with a rather pathetic bush poking above the rim, a rusting metal bedhead leaned against the wall, partly covering several piles of bricks, rocks and stones. ‘Lovely,’ thought Terry, ‘just bloody perfect.’

“What you doin’ mister?” asked a kid on a bike.

Terry had been aware that the small crowd who’d been hovering near the bus stop had chosen to follow him to his destination. He’d also been aware that the crowd had grown en route, and was now quite large and noisy. He chose to ignore the spokesperson and picked his way up the path.

He entered the building, previously a single house, now re-structured into flats with a tiny entrance hall and doors off. Just outside the door to Flat 2, his home-to-be for the next 25 years, was a pile of beer cans and pizza boxes, he kicked them aside as he put his key in the lock. He opened the door and stomped up the uncarpeted stairs. He didn’t linger at the top but walked straight through to the living room.

The carpet was bright pink; faded in parts, thin and wrinkled and the wallpaper was a lurid green. There was a chair, faded blue, the arms worn and stained, the cushion torn and the headrest filthy with years of accumulated grease. He gave a thought to the previous occupant – how long had he or she lasted? The TV sat directly on the floor and looked to be more or less the promised 12”, at least that’s what he figured, whatever it was small.

He crossed the room to the kitchen area, checked the cupboards; all dirty. He found one plate, one bowl and one cup, one knife, one fork, one dessert spoon and one teaspoon – was someone trying to make a point? The sink was stained and slimy to touch, the cold tap dripped sullenly, there was plumbing for a washing machine but no washing machine, damp flourished all along the wall and the window (view over to rendered wall of adjacent building) was cracked.

He checked the bedroom; bed with a dirty duvet, torn pillow and, thankfully given the state of the duvet, no sheet. In the corner of the room was the promised double wardrobe; albeit with only one door. The carpet was the same as in the front room but the walls were painted yellow, Terry dipped his head and rubbed his brow. He was too disheartened to even look in the ‘think yourself lucky to have one’ bathroom.

He plugged the TV in and slumped into the sole chair. He pressed the on button on the hand control but nothing happened, he tried again, nothing. He removed the back, no batteries ‘Great.’



Welcome to ‘Boro



As with a game of patience your life is predetermined,

The only variable is in how you play the game.

Author



He was woken by a loud banging. At first he didn’t know where he was or where the noise was coming from, then he saw the wallpaper and remembered with a depressed sigh. The banging continued. He staggered up from the chair into the hallway, stumbled down the stairs and opened the door to the unwelcome sight of a red-faced teenager in track suit bottom and a sleeveless grey hooded garment. “What you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?” Terry frowned, still a bit bleary from his doze, making out the intent if not the meaning of the words. “I said what the fuck you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse!” screamed the angry youth, his face barely six inches from Terry’s.

Terry was now very quickly awake; he slipped his right leg back, raised his heel slightly and turned his right shoulder away from the threat, but kept his expression benign, his posture relaxed and his hands low.

“I said! What the fuckin’ ‘ell’re you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry didn’t answer; just stared into the angry eyes.

If the lout hadn’t been so annoyed then Terry’s stance, relaxed and loose limbed, in the face of such aggression might have sent a warning. To be fair he couldn’t be expected to know that at six years old Terry, then slightly built and shy, had been introduced to Tae Kwon Do by his adoptive parents and unexpectedly thrived, gaining a black belt 4 years later. He’d gone further; by age 12 he was a 2nd Dan, at 15 a 3rd and by the time he was 20 he was a 4th Dan. He’d found his niche, and whilst gaining notoriety in TKD he’d also trained in Shotokan Karate, and mastered the art of Wing Chun, Jujitsu, Judo and Jeet Kune Do. For good measure he was also a fair boxer, an enthusiastic wrestler and an excellent shot but, all things considered, using that skill here could be considered extreme; besides a gun hadn’t been on the list of necessities that had been provided to him.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

“Are you from ‘round here?” asked Terry, politely.

“What?”

“That’s not a Yorkshire accent, is it?” asked Terry.

“Jest shut the fuck up, I’ll do the fuckin’ talkin’,” he added as he jabbed a finger at Terry’s chest.

The thrusting finger never reached its intended target. Terry reached up, grabbed it with his left hand, imprisoning the wrist with his right, and snapped the finger back so that it rested on the top of the captive hand. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg up, knee to chest, then snapped his leg straight out, driving the ball of his foot into the young man’s solar plexus, this thrust sending him flying backwards virtually all the way the end of the garden.

It was only then that Terry became aware of the watching crowd.

“Fuuuuck!” said a voice in the general commotion that followed, “did you see that?”

Terry strolled down the path and grabbed the now squealing youth and threw him backwards into the road.

“You’re gonna get it now Mister,” said one of the kids.

“Really,” answered Terry, “I don’t think he’s in any fit state, do you?”

“Not from him,” said the kid, “from his brothers.”

“Yeah the O’Connells,” said a girl on Terry’s left.

“Fuckin’ hardest bastards you’ll ever meet,” shouted someone.

“Really?” questioned Terry, “and where can I find these hard nuts?”

“They’ll find you” the girl yelled, pointing at a bike squealing up the road in the direction of her pointing finger.

“Thatcher Close!” shouted another girl, excitement in her eyes.

“Follow us,” shouted the kids as they raced off on their BMXs.

Terry strolled after them followed by a small crowd. They hadn’t travelled far when the kids came racing back on their bikes, “They’re comin’!” they shouted more or less in unison, “the O’Connells are comin’.”

They were coming indeed, marching down the centre of the road towards him.

Four in all, five if you counted the one Terry had just seen off, which Terry didn’t. Mostly sporting variations of the ubiquitous track suit bottom and assorted shapeless upper garments, the biggest one wore jeans instead of trackies, a coating of grease disguising the original colour and his arms were dark with tattoos. Prison tats, Terry would put money on it.

“Is this ‘im, Sean?” yelled the leading O’Connell, this one fully encased in a tracksuit, arms and all.

Terry walked into the middle of the road and waited, there was no traffic so he felt safe enough. He stepped slightly forward with his left leg, raised his heels and spread his balance evenly between both feet. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and raised his open hands to his chest. The one he’d already tangled with dropped off to the left, hanging back while his brothers spread out across the road; effectively closing off escape should Terry have been contemplating this action, which he wasn’t but they weren’t to know that.

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

“I’m ‘im, Jimmy,” yelled Terry, grinning ear from ear.

“You watch your mouth,” yelled the O’Connell on Terry’s far left.

Terry stared at Jimmy, fixing him as the leader; “is it one at a time or do you need to hold hands?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry ‘bout it, shit head,” yelled Jimmy, “it’ll only take one O’Connell to put you down.” That the direct contradiction to this statement was standing over to his side looking sheepish wasn’t about to deter him from making this rash boast. Terry smiled. He could have beaten them all together, at a push; easier to take them one at a time. “Take him out, Dale”.

Dale, the mouthy one on Terry’s far left moved forwards and pulled a short iron bar from behind his back. Terry nodded. Dale was now at a significant disadvantage; his whole attack would be based round swinging the bar whereas Terry had the freedom to strike with any part of his body, from any angle.

Dale went to raise his right arm so he could swing the iron bar but stopped short, seemingly recognising that doing this would expose him to an attack to his midriff or maybe lower, if Terry fought dirty. He stepped back slightly and pulled his right arm across his body so he could swing backhand. Terry adapted; stepped to his left and, crossing his feet, slipped round to Dale’s right. Dale tried to turn and swung his arm but Terry blocked, striking Dale’s elbow as his arm came round, at the same time he kicked him in the back of his right knee, sending him to the ground. He punched him in the temple and Dale’s world went black.

Terry stepped back and grinning beckoned the O’Connell on his far right forwards.

Jimmy waved him back, “No, not you, Brendan…Paddy,” he instructed.

Terry turned to face the jeans wearing brother, made swarthy with tattoos, a bigger, heavier version of the now unconscious Dale. Terry raised his open hands to guard his face, crouching slightly to protect his lower ribs with his elbows. Paddy pulled out the motor bike chain he wore for a belt and started to swing it round, above his head. Terry grinned, same mistake as his brother.

The chain came swinging towards Terry’s head and Terry slid backwards out of range. Paddy pulled back and swung the chain again. His recovery was slow and awkward but Terry wanted to check it again; he allowed Paddy to close in once more. Paddy swung the chain at Terry’s head a third time, angrily huffing as Terry ducked easily away. This time Paddy’s recovery was so ponderous that Terry allowed him to close again and when Paddy pulled the chain back above his head Terry followed in and placed a left jab clean on Paddy’s nose. The speedy follow up - a right hook to the body - sent Paddy straight to the ground; the floating rib, it’ll do that to you. Terry stepped back and raising his eyebrows at Jimmy, said, “So who’s next, Jim?” The O’Connell on Terry’s right started to move forward, “Leave it, Brendan” instructed Jimmy, “this one’s mine.”

Jimmy took off his track suit top revealing a well defined muscular torso; a slighter build so possibly more flexible than his lumbering brothers. He cracked his knuckles and, clenching his fists, took up a good boxing stance. Terry nodded, he recognised the mistakes Jimmy had just made and could predict the ones he would make next. Clenching his fists had tightened Jimmy’s shoulders and reduced the speed of any technique he would deliver and if Jimmy’s fighting knowledge had led him to clench his fists then Terry was confident his movement would not be speedy.

Terry allowed Jimmy to close in. Jimmy threw out a left jab as Terry slipped back, tapping it down with his lead open hand. Nothing annoyed opponents like having a punch swatted away with an open hand. Predictably, Jimmy threw another left, fierce and angry and then threw a right but Terry ducked his way out of both techniques. Terry bounced round behind Jimmy knowing as he did so that the fourth O’Connell would try to take him from behind; he did. Terry threw out a reverse side kick into this new assailant’s floating rib; job done.

Jimmy tried to take advantage of this distraction but Terry had already danced out of range. Jimmy closed again and threw more jabs and rights but each time Terry, a broad grin across his face, blocked or ducked or danced out of range. Jimmy got more and more annoyed. Terry offered his chin. Taking the bait, Jimmy swung a right but Terry wasn’t there anymore. “Come on, Jimmy,” he goaded, “surely you’re faster than that.”

Jimmy went to throw a left jab, pulled it and tried a quick kick but it was weak; uncontrolled and directionless. Terry shook his head and waited until Jimmy’s foot landed, leaving him off balance with his legs too stretched. Terry then bounced in, planted a left on Jimmy’s nose, a right on his left cheek, another left into his left side floating rib followed by a right upper cut onto his chin.

Jimmy collapsed onto his knees, swaying, dazed and bloodied. Terry bounced out and then swung a right legged turning kick at Jimmy’s temple stopping his foot millimetres from contact. He pulled his leg back and placing it behind him looked over to the one called Sean who waved his hands and shaking his head, backed off.

Terry returned to his flat followed by a large crowd of adulating fans.

Cheers for reading and hope you have a nice week

Arun

Currently FREE on Amazon

“Right, sit over there and wait for the Duty Sgt”.

The enforcement officer walked away leaving Terry to his own devices. He sniffed, stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled over to a long bench positioned along the hallway. He sat and stared at the posters opposite; there was a large one about securing your home, car and general neighbourhood from roaming gangs of thieves and worse. There were a couple offering rewards for stolen items, a few missing persons, some dog-eared wanted posters with photo fit pictures of some seriously scary looking blokes and then a load of what looked like internal memos.

“Jones?” Terry ignored the call ‘make ‘em work for their money’. It was a pointless gesture; he was the only one in the corridor. “Oi, you - are you deaf or just a fucking twat?” Terry sneered, still into making pointless gestures. “Get over here.” Terry unravelled himself from the bench slowly and strolled over to the counter. “Causing an affray,” said the Duty Sgt. “carries a fine of £1,000 and compulsory 5 day incarceration.”

“I wasn’t causing an affray,” argued Terry, “I was in my own flat.”

“According to our records it’s no longer your flat.”

“It is my flat,” argued Terry. It occurred to him to wonder that he had transitioned so swiftly from an employed, reasonably pliable, rule follower into a belligerent, confrontational person with nothing to lose. Hell, he did have nothing to lose, they’d taken it all.

“Not any more it’s not.”

“But that’s got to be illegal, surely.”

“Nope, looks like you should’ve read the small print on your mortgage.” Terry gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling. “Also according to the Galaxy’s transcript of your conversation with the young lady from Central Services…...”

“Young lady?” snapped Terry, “she was abusive and rude.”

“I think not, not according to the transcript from Galaxy, which I have here if you’d care to take a look yourself.” Terry sneered. “You were the one being abusive.” Terry said nothing. “I also see that they’ve deactivated your chip.”

“So!” the bravado was patently false but he couldn’t prevent it.

“So how do you intend to pay your fine?”

“How the fuck should I know!” he snapped, “they’ve taken everything, bunch of thieving …”

“Enough of that or I’ll have you banged up for 10 days.”

“Oh for Christ’ sake….” hissed Terry, “what am I supposed to do? It’s not my fucking fault.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it? Mine? Or perhaps it’s the fault of the officer who arrested you? Or perhaps the young lady from Central Services….what was her name?” he murmured, scanning down the sheets in front of him “ah yes, Delia, was it her fault?”

“Oh, funny haha!” replied Terry, “how’s anybody meant to get on under these ridiculous rules?”

“Oh? What? You mean paying your bills?”

“I pay my bills” snapped Terry, “but on my salary and with prices being what they are how can anyone stay ahead?”

“Well I manage.”

“Well bully for you,” replied Terry, “but then I’m not surprised on what you lot make.” Any remnant of goodwill drained from the room like water flushing down a toilet.

“We earn our money dealing with little shits like you.”

“Really,” answered Terry, going for broke “I thought you earned it by protecting the Aristos.”

“Enough of your fucking lip, you’re getting 10 days, 2 to be served here and 8 to be served wherever they decide to ship you …Which I really hope is going to be shitville.”

≈ ≈

Two days later Terry was escorted onto a prison bus, destination unknown. Wrists handcuffed in front of him, with his feet chained, he was directed to the back of the bus where he was flanked by two armed guards. “You sit down and you don’t speak,” said one of the guards.

“Why am I chained?” The question popped out by itself; the chains were the ultimate degradation, a foot length of cold steel actually clanking as he shuffled like something off the corniest convict film. “I haven’t done anything, all I did was get sacked.”

“And the P118?” asked the first guard, “and the riot you caused in the station.”

“We know how to deal with argumentative fuck wits like you,” hissed the second guard, illustrating the point by driving the butt of his pump shotgun into Terry’s thigh. “Not another word ‘til we reach [2]Middlesbrough.”

“Shit,” hissed Terry, “not the Boro?” He’d been hoping for one of the ‘just outside London’ sinks like Brum for no good reason other than nearness to home. ‘Boro’ was a world away.

“What did we tell you?” hissed the first guard as he thrust his elbow sharply into Terry’s stomach, effectively silencing him.

≈ ≈

“Hello Mr. Jones.” Terry flicked a glance at the young lady opposite, sort of smiled and nodded. He’d been escorted to the local Relocations operations office and been kept waiting for 3 hours before meeting her; his state-allocated counsellor, Debby. “Have you been fighting?”

He stared at her ; he’d survived the 8 days incarceration, in what he’d been told was one of Middlesbrough’s roughest prisons, by being funny, something he’d found useful at boarding school until his first black belt rendered such tactics unnecessary. Whilst in the prison he’d kept his martial art skills under wraps; feeling his way, thinking it best to avoid attention. His speed had come in handy, mostly in deflecting blows when a few hard nuts hadn’t appreciated his humour and in generally keeping out of people’s way. Not much use when it came to the screws though; enclosed spaces and mob handed.

“No.”

“Oh, but the cuts and bruises, and your eye?” asked Debby

“Police hospitality,” replied Terry.

“Oh!” she said, “are you saying the police did this?” She reached for her notepad and began writing.

“No” replied Terry, hastily “No, I’m not.”

“But you said….”

“Never mind,” replied Terry.

“If you have a complaint against…” continued Debby.

“If I have a complaint against anyone, especially the police,” said Terry, “I’m not going to tell you, am I.”

“But you have to,” said Debby, “everything has to be logged so it can be investigated.”

“Well I don’t have a complaint,” said Terry, “I fell.”

“You fell?”

“I fell.”

“But that’s not what you just said,” pressed Debby.

“Well, it’s what I’m saying now.”

“You do know it’s an offence to make a false accusation against the police don’t you,” pressed Debby.

“I haven’t made an accusation against the police, false or otherwise,” said Terry.

“But you said it was police hospitality thus implying they had beaten you up.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Er…yes you did,” pressed Debby, “I’ve made a quick note of the time on my pad and I can play the conversation back for you if you like.” Terry frowned. “Everything in this meeting is filmed and recorded,” she said, pointing to a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“Great,” moaned Terry, “look I didn’t mean anything ok, the police were fantastic, they made me feel right at home. I fell, that’s all.”

“Where did you fall?”

“In the shower.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Debby stared at Terry for a good 30 seconds before proceeding. “Ok, as you know, you are here in Middlesbrough because your debts exceed the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the employment act, which for your information is….”

“Yes I know,” interrupted Terry, “£25,000, thank you.”

“In which case you’ll know you face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence,” continued Debby.

“Yes,” said Terry.

“Which carries a minimum fine of £300,000.” pressed Debby.

“£300,000?” blurted Terry, “no-one told me that! How the fuck’m I meant to get £300,000? On top of what I already owe, how’m I supposed to pay that?”

“And 25 years social labour.”

“What!”

“25 years social labour,” repeated Debby.

“I heard…but 25 yrs and what the fuck’s social labour?”

“Please modulate your language, Mr. Jones. It does not help your cause” she nodded at him, a mild frown furrowing her brow. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Basically we will find you work and all your wages will be paid into Central Services who will refund your debtors.”

“And what do I get?” asked Terry incredulously.

“Nothing until your debts are paid,” said Debby.

“But how do I live?” asked Terry.

“We will put you up in social housing and provide you with the basics, food and heating, social welfare, that sort of thing…for which you will of course be charged.”

“What... and this goes on for...?” he spluttered, unable to finish the sentence.

“For 25 yrs, yes. Galaxy has provided a calculation….”

“But I’ll be nearly 50 when I get shot of it all…that can’t be right...”

“…of your total indebtedness with a projection of your social welfare debts….”

“Oh let me guess,” said Terry, “I mean what with the £170,000 I already owe….”

“I think you’ll find that’s £178,500, not including interest…”

“Interest?” he squeaked.

“…..at 3% above base rate which is currently at 9% so today your interest is 12% but that’s probably going to go up ½% in the coming months as most forecasts reckon the Bank of England will raise base rates in a month or so.” Debby finished in a triumphant burst.

Terry sneered and made a mock laugh.

“This isn’t anything to be taken lightly, Mr. Jones.”

“I know,” said Terry, “I was being facetious.”

“I wouldn’t make a habit of that, not in your position.” Terry sneered again. “As I was saying,” pressed Debby after a brief pause, “you owe £178,500 already, plus the fine of £300,000 plus a projected welfare debt of £130,000 with interest at 12% over 25 years totaling £1,825,500….” Terry leaned back and burst out laughing “Mr. Jones, this is very serious.”

“Oh yes,” said Terry, “it’s very serious, it’s so serious it’s insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“You’re trying to sting me for how much? It’s got to be over 2 million pounds, you tell me that’s not insane.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“I mean, I lost my job, I was late a few times and just because some crappy Government organisation reckons I’m low on points I get screwed over by the state for 2 million, well, fuck you.”

“Language, Mr. Jones and actually it is £2,434,000.” said Debby, “My advice to you, Mr. Jones is that you need to accept you brought this on yourself. The bottom line is you have proven yourself to be a poor employee….”

“Poor employee!” shouted Terry.

“Yes Mr. Jones,” said Debby, “a good many people would’ve loved to have had the opportunities you’ve had, it’s no-one’s fault but your own that you squandered them.”

“I was late a few times!” snapped Terry, “how can they do this to me, it’s bloody ridiculous.”

“It is Justice, Mr. Jones,” replied Debby, “the world doesn’t owe you a living you know. When a company agrees to employ you they place themselves at a disadvantage in that they don’t know what kind of person you are and they have to trust….”

“I’ll have you know I work very hard, I shifted more work than most of my colleagues, I was just late a few times and I didn’t suck up to the management.”

“Of course,” said Debby, “it was the management’s and your work colleagues’ fault, I’ve heard it all before. Isn’t it funny how it’s always someone else’s fault. People like you think that the world owes them a living, you want an easy ride whilst everyone else works hard.”

“I worked hard,” snapped Terry.

“Of course you did,” said Debby, “but hey, you were sacked for tardiness, funny that.” Terry gritted his teeth, he couldn’t afford to lose it with her completely “Your employer was good enough to give you the opportunity to prove your worth to society; employed you, paid you, got you on the property ladder and this is how you repay them.”

She shuffled her papers and then left the room. After 30 minutes she returned with a cup of coffee; she obviously took her counseling position seriously. Terry smiled nastily, “Back so soon.”

“You are to be housed in a one bedroom flat,” said Debby. “With an open plan kitchen and lounge and very unusually, this flat comes with its own bathroom.”

Terry pulled a face, “I was hoping for a separate dining room and maybe a guest room.”

Debby ignored him, “It’ll be furnished with everything you need.” She answered his unspoken question, “Bed, wardrobe, sofa, 12” TV, kitchen table and chair and basic dinner set.”

“What more could I want?” He smirked at her.

Debby pulled a fake grin. “This is the address, your front door key, your bus fare and a week’s sub money,” she said , standing to leave, “we found a place for you with a local sanitation company, you start next week and the money will be docked from your first week’s wages. Enjoy.”

Terry pulled a fake grin.

Thanks for reading and hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Fancy starting a new book series this weekend, it's only 99p, what have you got to lose, apart from 99p and what else can spend 99p on? Buy a bag of crisps hmm, crisps or book?

This is a 5 star review by Fran Lewis: reviewer - for the book 'Corpalism'
And you know what the crazy thing is - not only haven't you read it yet - I'll bet you've never even heard of it - but all is not lost because right now - YES RIGHT NOW - IT'S ONLY 99p for kindle/PC download

review by Fran Lewis: reviewer

Imagine a world where people are no longer able to voice their opinions, speak up and express their own thoughts and allowed to live, as they want. Imagine living in a repressive socially controlled environment where only a few select or elite few make the decisions where you live, work, what you eat and where you sleep for you. Dystopian societies feature this type of social control repressing those who live under their domination. Ideas and works in these societies explore the concept of people or humans abusing each person’s individuality, collective reasoning, coping, or not being able to properly handle and deal with the technology that has evolved far more quickly and advanced than most humans can handle. Enter the world that author Arun Ellis has created in his breakthrough novel, Corpalism, that will create many questions within the reader’s mind, fear within your own thoughts and definitely keep you glued to the printed page until you learn the final outcome of what happens when the New World Order decides to take over and the end result. Would you want your every move programmed: Would you want someone to have unlimited power over you? Would you want to live in a society run by survival of the fitness and class distinction?

What would happen when corporate greed wins and a new World Order takes over. Set in the UK this unique novel will make everyone one of us search for answers to questions that you might never have asked and be more vigilante when taking what you have fore granted. Let’s me the people of the New World Order and final out more about them. Beginning with Mrs. Mayweather who seems to be in a serious quandary over how do deal with several children who are in her charge and whose placements and adoptions are under her control. But, a communiqué would change that for one child but which one? Which one would disappear Robert or Alan? Which child would never be the same?

Moving to another group of people who work for a unit called Relocations 1. Being late can be hazardous to more than just your job, your welfare and your human rights. Being late for your job can get you arrested, fined, dragged in chains and seriously in debt as one young man named Terry Jones would learn the hard way. Beaten by the police and taken away in chains Terry Jones would learn more than just some harsh realities when his supervisor decides to terminate him on the spot. Losing his housing, his privileges, his job, his money and in total debt for everything from failing to keep his job, using bad language to express himself, fined over 178 thousand pounds, 300 thousand more as fine, a projected welfare debt of 130 thousand and an interest rate of 12 and a half percent over 25 years totally almost 2 million pounds all because he was late a few times. I would hate to think what would have happened if he was a poor worker. Missing the meeting that stated that his division was merging with another and that employees would have to pay for their drinks and the things the company would not do and do and what was expected of them was frightening to say the least. His end result was he was provided with the basic necessities of life and a menial job with sanitation. Would Terry learn how to tell time? But, his first encounter with the crowd where he lived with bring on a fight that some kids thought were great, a new fan club of his own and the hopes of learning what he knew how to do. But, Terry was rude, mean and defiant and never gives anyone a chance. But, then he meets Sandra a caregiver and they develop an unusual friendship after their awkward moments and when she realizes what is he and what he is not. Added to the group are his co-workers and a group of kids that want to be just like him that he teaches self-defense. But, what Terry does not realize is that the world is programmed and different and his every move, word and thoughts are being monitored. This first volume is set in the future as we learn what happens when the terrorist attacks run high, warnings are placed and people are categorized according to genetic defects and intelligence. But Terrence would learn that teaching martial arts to kids is forbidden and the punishment severe.


Joining Dan and Donald in their meetings Terry becomes friends with many others just like him. Working in Relocations gave him a healthy respect for Galaxy’s ability to link Resource Requirements and Resources available across the continents. But, what he did not know was about the upgrade to Signus, which would allow the government to know the whereabouts of every person in the UK at any time. Would you like your life controlled and monitored? Thin about this carefully. When some of their get caught and the realities set in just who will be left in their small group as the author and the characters explain to the reader that the government and the rich want these people in debt forever.

When all of Don’s group are arrested or killed the author provides a twist that you won’t see coming as we learn more Terry, who he really is and his relation to a man named Sir Phillip. As Donald is questioned and he begins to understand what is about to happen they explain the truth behind the organization called the Black Hand and the reasons why they were created. Some people feel that the way the government is being run needs to be changed and if they create a terrorist group that appears on the scene, takes credit for the bombings maybe things we change.

One meeting would not only enlighten the reader but each of the men living in the sink and having little to show for lives. As Terry explains to the unyielding crowd about what the government and the wealthy are doing to the poor and downtrodden that work hard and do not reap the benefits some listen and others are more angered. When all is almost said and done what is revealed is that those at the meeting are government plants or informants that have to report back to the authorities. He also states that he knows that the meeting is being monitored and that they are the majority and the others need to start paying attention to them. What he wants them to do you need to read for yourself and learn what happens when the government and the ruling masses get too greedy and the masses might finally get it and do something about it.

As Terry tries to explain to his audience the point the author is making about capitalism and its definition we learn as Terry states that everyone is supposed to benefit but in the world created in this book that is not so. Those with the most are getting it all and those that are at the bottom get less and are lower down as some might say on the food chain. Added in at the bottom of some of the pages are interesting historical footnotes that the reader might find enlightening. What happens next will surprise the reader as they try to turn the tables and Volume One is completed as the deceptions and lies are revealed and Terry learns some harsh truths.

Volume 2

This Volume begins with the disappearance of Delores Grey and her returning home after forty days and forty nights. Questioned she cannot remember where she was or how she got there. The police however think it was a stunt of some kind and do not believe she was kidnapped. When interviewed on television she presents a strange demeanor, her answers to the questions are way off base and her reactions out of character. Just her definition of religion was shocking alone when you read page 249 and get to know how she thinks. Poor Delores thinks she is in a loony world or is she the loony? But, the end result is the public loved her and praised her honesty. Delores presents to the listening audience her personal viewpoint on how singers and talent gets discovered, why some are successful and others not and why she feels the program called The Talent is fixed. She presents her viewpoint on God and her beliefs about the system and government in general. Her viewpoint on life is quite unique, somewhat disturbing and as her agent and the host listens to her they have to begin to wonder just where she was for the days she was missing and what might have happened to her. The end of the interview is quite startling and her reflections on life even more. The entire volume is devoted to Delores, her thoughts and her ideas. Delores has her own perspective on why the world is so mixed up and why we need to focus on doing something with our lives, which is our only free resource. Think about it. Meet the rest of the staff of this hospital and find out what really happens to Delores, Stephanie White and your decide what is real and what is not.

Volumes 3 and 4
The next two volumes sum up the way people feel about the world, the world is viewed, its problems and the reasons why people need to fight for their rights and change is needed. In Volume 3 the author presents his views and arguments in unique way. Using fictional characters from literature, television, movies and relating their conversations to real historical events allows the reader to come back to the initial first volume dealing with the World Order as we meet Terry, Rob and some of the main characters again flowing right into Volume Five but not before revisiting the prologue and Mary Mayweather and the end of Volume 2. Volume Five begins with the definition of Democracy, the viewpoints of many of the characters calling themselves Independent Candidates and throughout the first section explaining quite clearly to the reader the pitfalls of watching junk TV, the lies you listen to about the economy, the fact that the rich and many corporations have outsourced jobs to third world countries and the fact that armies are willing to crush any workers that ask for more. This is heard throughout Volume Five, which leads to the dramatic conclusion where we learn whether Democracy wins, The World Order takes over, Things stay the same or something else happens leading up to the final finale or 12/12/12/. We meet many new characters in this Volume such as the Preacher, Catherine Jenkins, Colin Carpenter and many others that consider themselves Independent Candidates. It is almost as if we the author created his own debates for a major election where every candidate gives his/her ideas to a huge forum of people. But, intertwined we have Rob, Terry, the Prime Minister and the Terrorists. So, what is the final plan of the PM, Blackmore and the rest? You decide when you read this novel just where the world is going and how we can all work together to keep our freedoms and rid the world of hate and intolerance. A well-written novel that brings to light many issues about our both the UK and America and our viewpoints on economic and world policies in a way that will definitely make the reader think.





Books in the Corpalism series














And the Compendium editions

Insurrection by Arun D Ellis - book 4 in the Corpalism series

Suddenly

Cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth Terry Jones grabbed his jacket and left his apartment for the office. He’d had the option of a high-rise within walking distance when he was first assigned to Relocations; his reasons for turning it down had seemed sound; cost = astronomical, space = minimal. Now, and not for the first time, he wished he’d taken it. That morning he’d set his alarm earlier than usual in the hopes of beating the rush hour traffic, problem was he never really managed to keep to his schedule (poor time management or lousy schedule?) and he found himself, yet again, bumper to bumper and yet again, late for work.

Brian Olsen made the final adjustments to his tie, jacket and hair before leaving the men’s room and heading to his desk; all the while diligently maintaining an erect 6ft 6in posture, a copy of today’s Times clamped under his right arm, his brief case gripped firmly in his right hand, and as he strode he repeated his mantra over and over in his head ‘today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations, today I will excel, today I will exceed all expectations….’

Rain Morgan, stared at the free drinks machine for a few moments before selecting a cappuccino with sugar. Her actual name was Rainbow Sunset, her mother having one her odd moments, but she preferred Rain. She was quickly joined by Debby Jenna and Phillippa Djukovic; just time for a quick debrief of Phillippa’s date with Simon Brookes from Finance.

Peter Illyffe, the divisional manager for Relocations 1, left his office and headed for the usual 8:30 briefing in meeting room 3, aka the cupboard due to its lack of size and windows. His staff fell in behind, a well-rehearsed troupe, that is everyone except Terry Jones who was still driving fruitlessly round and round the car park.

The room filled quickly; those lucky enough to get in the door first grabbed a seat at the table, Peter at their head.

“Morning everyone,” he said, to which there were the usual responses of “morning, morning Peter,” a few nods and coughs and a silky “morning, Boss” from Brian, tall even when sitting down. “No Terry, I see?”

This too was greeted by the usual responses, initial silence, then embarrassed coughs or ums…. followed by a clear and unequivocal “he’s not in yet, Boss” from Brian. Peter made a note in the top corner of his meeting notes, as usual.

“Ok, everyone got a copy of today’s agenda?” general nods everywhere, “good, ok – item one then – the recent merger with Alderson’s. As per our meeting yesterday morning I’ve checked up the line and can confirm that Alderson’s Relocations are being wound down and we will ‘inherit their workload’.”

“Relocations are being relocated,” Phillippa’s quip was not altogether unexpected; there were a few groans.

“Thank you Phillippa,” said Peter.

“How big a workload we talking?” asked Rain.

“Approx half again our existing workload,” replied Peter.

“Will we be getting more staff?” Rain again.

“No,” said Peter.

“But how are we meant to cope with that?” asked Debby, saying what the others were thinking.

“By ‘working smarter’,” Brian jumped in, borrowing one of Peter’s ‘phrases of the moment’, “and if some people spent less time at the coffee machine talking then we’d get a lot more done.”

“Who’re you on about?” demanded Debby, realising too late that by asking the question she had singled herself out. Peter made another note at the top of his meeting papers.

“Moving on” said Peter, sounding tired, “there will be a further meeting at 2pm today with the team from Alderson’s so we can ‘manage the handover’ smoothly. Rain and I will attend that. Another quick point, the company will no longer be providing free drinks.”

There was a collective gasp, then “Why’re they changing it?” asked Debby, “I mean we’ve had free coffee for years now.” For some reason her mouth seemed to be working overtime this morning, in the absence of Terry it could be deemed she had assumed his mantle.

“As you all know we’re facing ever ‘stiffer competition’ out there, which is one of the reasons we’ve been merged with Alderson’s. The Efficiency Department has identified that the company could save almost £100,000 a year by moving to a ‘pay for your own’ drinks environment.”

“Can we bring a kettle and make our own drinks?” asked Phillippa.

“No,” replied Peter, “that would mean providing kitchen facilities – an added expense.”

“What about a flask?” asked Brian.

“Flasks are OK,” said Peter, flashing him a grateful smile.

“If you can drink anything from a flask,” muttered Rain.

“Everyone, now, come to order, please” Peter was becoming irritated and the strain of not showing it was telling on his stress levels. At that point Terry opened the door and slipped into the room, “Ah! Mr. Jones, glad you could join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” said Terry “couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“There were loads of spaces when I got here at 8:00,” said Brian.

“I got held up in traffic,” offered Terry, his expression hopeful.

“Then might I suggest you leave earlier,” replied Brian, “we all make the effort to be here on time, it’s only ever you who’s late.”

“Thank you, Brian” Peter interceded, “OK the final point, we’ve had a report from C.I.T, the Counter Intelligence Team,” he elaborated, staring pointedly at Phillippa over whose head most things of import were known to sail, “that we have a ‘heightened terror threat’ as a result of our merger with Alderson’s.” He waited for the information to sink in then continued by way of explanation, “Apparently we’re now the 3rd largest provider of labour resource in the EU so it makes us an even bigger target.” Phillippa looked on the verge of tears, possibly at being singled out for the stare. The rest were demonstrating variously dismay or affected disinterest but no-one spoke. “So everybody please ‘stay alert, stay vigilant’ and re-watch the compulsory DVD ‘Terror and Counter Terrorism’. Remember, ‘we’re all in this together’ and it’s up to each and every one of us to …‘keep the workplace safe’.”

Terry winced; he was convinced that Peter’s insistence on speaking in inverted commas and quoting the company watchwords at every opportunity was having a damaging effect on his psyche.

“Did anyone see the news this morning?” asked Rain, too brightly “there was an explosion in the town centre.”

“Yeah,” chipped in Debby, “near Macheson’s.”

“They said something about 20 casualties,” Rain added, “it’s awful”.

“Did they say who it was?” asked Terry.

“It’s a bit early for that kind of info,” snapped Brian.

“I dunno,” defended Terry, “they sometimes give a warning.”

“That’s the Red Freedoms,” said Debby, “the Black Hands don’t give a warning.”

“Which could imply the Black Hands,” said Terry, settling in for a natter on the merits and demerits of one terrorist organisation’s way of doing business versus another.

“OK,” interrupted Peter, forestalling further chat, “Any questions?”

“When are they doing something about parking?” said Terry, opportunistic as ever.

“As we said yesterday and the day before and oh yes as we’ve been saying in all these months since you joined us they aren’t going to do anything about the parking, thank you Terry.” Peter stared round the table, lingering on Phillippa, as if daring any more utterances.

“When are they going to fix the tower clock?” she asked, making a sterling effort to fight back tears.

“And they aren’t going to fix the clock, either, Phillippa. As we’ve already said it will cost too much to repair. Any more questions?” Silence. “Good, back to work all of you, except you Terry, if you could just stay back a minute.” The others filed out of the room and closed the door behind them. “You were late again Terry.”

“I know but it was the traffic….”

“Traffic is not an excuse, Terry,” said Peter, “you should know to factor that in to your plans. Also, as I recall, Human Resources offered you an apartment close by when you joined us, a much sought after facility that had only come available due to the unfortunate demise of your predecessor.” He fell silent, possibly in recognition of human frailty and the fact that the previous occupant had thrown himself ungratefully off the 7th floor balcony of the much vaunted facility. “You are paid to be here between the hours of 8:30 and 5:00. It’s up to you to get yourself here on time.”

“Yes.” said Terry, for once recognising a time when the less words said might be the better.

“Everyone else manages to be here. I have to come from further away than you so I leave earlier. Brian always gets here at 8:00.”

…yeah but Brian hasn’t got a life… “I know.” Terry murmured, humbly.

“And he doesn’t leave his desk until 5.45 whereas you are packed and out the door by 5:20 if you can get away with it.”

Again, Brian hasn’t got a life …“I always do my hours…”

“Do you want to see your clocking in sheet?” asked Peter. Terry ducked his head; he knew what it would show. “The thing is Terry, it’s not working out for us; I think we need to move you on.”

Terry grimaced “I’m sorry Peter,” he tried, “I promise I will get here earlier in future.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, Galaxy has already collated your data and raised it with Human Resources. They’ve spotlighted you and already put in the transfer request.”

“You mean I’m already on the List?” asked Terry. “That was quick.”

Peter gave him a look; he was a strange one and no mistake, “Should come through in a few days. …Obviously you can’t be on site when it comes through, that would create a conflict of interest so your employment with Peter Brookes will be terminated this morning.” Terry placed his head in his hands; his date with Cathy in Finance had just gone down the pan. “I’m sorry, Terry but you knew your stats were in the system. It was only a matter of time before Galaxy highlighted you. You know the drill; it’s out of my hands.”

“I know, I know,” said Terry.

“I’m afraid I have to escort you off the premises.” Terry nodded. “Straight from this meeting,”

“Right now?” questioned Terry, “Don’t I get to say goodbye to anyone?”

“Afraid not, you will be clocked out …” Peter flicked through his paperwork, “5 minutes from now. Sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Terry, “I know how the system works.”

≈ ≈

He slumped into his settee and started flicking channels, more for something to do than actually find something to watch, he would probably channel hop for a good couple of hours. It was ironic that under other circumstances he’d have been glad of the time to run through his patterns; it would have surprised Peter Illyffe and his work colleagues to know that as a Tae Kwon Do 4th Dan he trained regularly.

However, abruptly out of work and awaiting re-location to God knows where he didn’t really feel like committing time to any particular activity.

The TV went dead at the precise moment the phone rang, “Terence Jones?”

“Terry,” he corrected, “I prefer Terry.”

“Mr. Jones,” said the woman on the other end, “my name is Delia Helm and I’m phoning from Central Services. We note that you were dismissed from Peter Brooke’s redeployment agency today and as a result are due to be relocated…”

“Well yeah,” said Terry, “but that was only about 5 minutes ago and….”

“From our records it was 2 hours and 15 minutes ago,” continued Delia, “and as a result of your dismissal and your financial situation we’re terminating all services with immediate effect.”

“What?” the word came out as a gasp, “All services?? But what does that mean?”

“It means that until you have repaid the £30,000 you owe your creditors or until you have the means of repaying them you will be unable to take advantage of any services offered within the UK.”

“What?”

“We have deactivated the purchasing power of your chip” she paused “and we will take possession of your flat and its contents today.”

“But you can’t do that!”

“Please don’t shout at me, Mr. Jones or I will have to raise a P118 which will be escalated to your local law enforcement officer.”

He fell silent awaiting the next hammer blow; he knew the drill, yeah but not the detail nor had he anticipated the speed and in any case, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Your flat and its contents will be auctioned this afternoon and the funds raised will go to settle some of your debts. For your information I can confirm that Galaxy have estimated that we will raise £1,500 on your possessions and £500,000 on the sale of your flat. However, as you are aware we are currently in a recession which means the market value of your flat is around £150,000 less than you originally paid for it…”

“Oh don’t give me that...” snapped Terry.

“As you had a 100% mortgage you will owe your bank the balance of £150,000 which plus the £30,000 sundry debts minus the £1,500 obtained from the sale of your possessions means you will be looking at an overall debt of approximately £178,500.”

“What!”

“As this sum exceeds the total unemployed indebtedness allowable under section 12a of the Employment Act” she continued relentlessly, “which for your information is £25,000, you will face criminal proceedings for fiscal incompetence.”

“You are fucking kidding!” the expletive resonated round the room.

“Mr. Jones, I warned you - I have raised a P118 reporting you to your local enforcement officer. Please do not leave the building.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” yelled Terry, “I’ll leave the bloody building if I want to.”

“Of course you must do as you wish however I should warn you that your details will have been passed to building security. The minute you step outside your flat you will be Tasered.”

“Fuck off!” shouted Terry as he hung up.

He turned and stormed to the door, opened it and stared into the hallway, ‘Tasered? Who’s going to Taser me? I can’t see anyone.’ He noticed a thin strip running the length of the hall on both sides of the corridor. ‘Nah, that’s just electric cable, surely?’

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun







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