Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 27

'Insurrection' by Arun D Ellis

Extract below

Something in the Wind 6

It has been said that when human beings stop believing in God they believe in nothing.
The truth is much worse: they believe in anything.
Malcolm Muggeridge

Barry had upped the ante a bit with this one, moving the venue and taking a chance on filling it. Turned out to be no trouble at all; he could have gone for bigger. It was still word of mouth and a bit on Twitter; low key enough for Blackmore to believe he was still in control. For his own part he was a bit worried it was gaining its own momentum; might be difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. The money was good though and he was enjoying being part of something real.

The Preacher was in full swing and the audience was giving him their complete attention.

"In the 1930s the German nation's children were seduced by the grand assertion that they were the new master race, the young Olympians who would inherit the world, when in reality they were destined to a life of despair as their futures spiralled out of control. Such was the pitiless evil of the Nazi empire."

He looked around the theatre, larger than usual but with barely an empty seat, "But that was the 1930s and that was the Nazis. This is now and we live in completely different times, we live in a completely different world."

He raised his hands, "I would like to speak of my children, young adults now, my two sons and my daughter. I love my children as I'm sure you do yours, if you have them. I don't see them often since my divorce but I do know what they have become, and I'm sure that some of you would recognise the characteristics."

He stopped talking, this was obviously painful for him and very personal. There was silence whilst they waited for him to collect himself. Not much fidgeting, Barry noted; a good sign.

Then he raised his head and his voice rang out, "Glued to the TV, obsessed with ludicrous soap storylines, the drama being played out more real to them than real-life. On Xbox, playing the latest violent action-packed game that makes reality seem pale and insignificant. On one of those social sites talking inane drivel to their friends. Texting feverishly. They don't read and can't spell. They have no idea about the UK beyond the confines of their own town, know nothing of our history unless it's US biased cinema in glorious Technicolor. They drive rather than walk, leave lights on, bath instead of shower, and in short, don't give a damn. Does this ring any bells?"

There were nods of agreement from the older members of the audience, "But they do know about mobile phone contracts, in fact they have several mobile phones, I've even inherited some myself, the ones they no longer want, I actually took on their contracts so that they could upgrade. They have to have the latest tablets, the most up to date PCs, TVs ...the list goes on."

He paused and checked the nodding heads, "The ad men have seduced our young people; they have mesmerized them with photo shopped images of super models and ridiculously over-paid sporting personalities. Promoted as false idols these prescription meds addicted film stars, and singers who condone violence to women and who prostitute their talent for fame. Seduced them with a flashy, selfish, skin-deep alternative reality of stardom, fame and celebrity; the antithesis of hard work, stoicism and compassion. All of these things have been designed to turn our children into consumer addicts; believing themselves to be inheritors of the world by right; the modern-day Hitler Youth."

Barry was fascinated. He had no clue how to report this back up the line; the preacher was unique, a one-off and it was hard to gauge his impact. The audience was also hard to read; murmurings and mutterings but to what end? All he could say for sure was that they were still listening and no-one had walked out.

The Preacher wandered around the stage, "We have failed our young because we did not stop the Corporations seducing them with their adverts. Worse yet, we encouraged it by buying them the next new thing, by getting them the biggest and the best that money could buy simply because we could. Or was it because we wanted to get them the things we never had as children?"

He paused and looked around at the nodding heads, "We gave them cold, heartless, meaningless things and deprived them of emotional engagement."

He took a quick sip of water, "We bought them a colour TV and piped SKY® into their rooms and left them with a plastic and glass companion that had no soul. We left them to feed off inane US imports with their false concepts of wealth and greed and lust and promiscuity and gender confusion. We left them to absorb all this by themselves without guidance and discussion and challenge. We deprived them of the core concepts of love, compassion and communication. I ask you, what have we created?"

They were silent as they waited for him to continue, Barry could sense their discomfort but it was obvious they would sit it out to the bitter end. He noted with mounting concern that the mobiles were out, filming the speech. Christ, he'd be on YouTube® next...that might draw too much attention from Blackmore.

"We have created a generation of indifferent, avaricious, selfish, dysfunctional, celebrity adulating, trivia junkies who believe that the most important thing in the world is to tweet their latest sociopathic self aggrandizing thought."

This got him applause from parts of the theatre, some people were standing up.

He continued, "They buy ridiculously cheap products knowing that someone was forced to make it in near slave conditions for a pittance and they don't care."

He was on a roll as he worked the stage, "Billions of people are suffering in poverty, hundreds of thousands are dying needlessly every day, and all our kids want to do is watch TV, text, spend, eat crap food, burn fossil fuels with no regard for the consequences and generally lay around all day doing nothing. I ask you, are such individuals really worthy of life?"

There were a few concerned looks, Barry thought he'd gone too far even for this crowd, most of whom had clearly heard him speak before, "Our children are the new Nazis for they know that over a third of the world suffers so they can live a life of self indulgence and they don't care, worse still they think it is their birth right. Our children bitch and moan at us, we have spoiled them and we have allowed the media men to turn them into moribund social and economic leaches whose sole purpose is to consume and create waste."

His voice tailed off as he paused in the centre of the stage. "And so it is, we have sold our children's souls and created a social nightmare, we have given birth to a greedy self interested society that must be destroyed before the rest of humanity can live."

He walked off so quickly from the stage that even Barry was taken by surprise.

Cheers and hope you have a good week.

Arun









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'Power Grab' the 8th book in the 'Corpalism' series by Arun D Ellis

New release 'Power Grab' by Arun D Ellis



News

Mohammed was furious.

He knew that the station had made a risky decision, fronting news of what was potentially a high profile Daesh assassination of the US president with an obviously Muslim announcer. But he was convinced that he had managed the news of the death with considerable aplomb.

Since then, though, they had clearly lost courage and annoyingly had put Darbinder Singh in charge of the hour-long follow-up special about the economic fall-out from the president's death.

Mohammed was of the opinion the viewers wouldn't know the difference, would think Darbinder was a Muslim and label him equally responsible. Somehow that made the station's decision more unforgiveable.

Darbinder turned to face the camera, showed his teeth, gleaming white against his brown skin, "Our main story, following the assassination of President Stone, is of global markets continuing to fall; the FTSE 100 down another 500 points and the Dow Jones down over 800 points."

Mohammed glowered, wondering if it was worth putting the slick bastard off his stride by fidgeting at crucial moments, or clearing his throat. He decided against it when he saw the station commander giving him a knowing look.

Darbinder looked down at his screen, then added, "The dollar is at an all time low and the Euro fell again today. The pound also appears shaky and analysts fear that an economic crisis greater than the banking crisis of 2008 is only days away, our economics advisor, Ahmed Khan, joins us with more."

The camera panned out to reveal an eager Indian man, earnestly looking into the camera. Mohammed knew him to be a backroom person, unused to the limelight, nice enough and a good researcher but Darbinder would not be kind if he faltered.

"So, what is causing the problems, Ahmed?"

"Well, you see," said Ahmed, happily, "the murder of President Stone is a major blow for those hoping for a continuation of his austerity measures. The markets don't believe that his successor, President Ortega, has the same determination to see things through."

"They think he'll relax some of the cuts?"

"Worse than that I'm afraid, Darbinder. Most analysts seem to think the new man was merely going along with President Stone's policies so of course, now he is President he no longer feels obliged to see them through."

"But with rising poverty across America, is it such a bad idea to go slow on austerity, at least until things improve?"

"Well, you might think that, Darbinder, but US National Debt is now running at an unsustainable $26 Trillion."

Ahmed laughed nervously at his own words, "An unimaginable sum, and failure to bring this monstrous debt under control can only lead to America defaulting on its debts and that would cause a literal stampede away from the dollar and US markets."

Darbinder frowned; this was no laughing matter, nervous or not, "So what does this mean for the markets in general?"

"Most people are getting out of stocks in a hurry and into the old favourites, gold and bitcoin being the main ones of course."

"Right," said Darbinder, "and what does this mean for the dollar and other currencies?"

Ahmed looked distressed, but spoke strongly, "The markets have signified a loss of faith in the American economy. China holds nearly a trillion dollars of American debt, as well as majority stocks in a number of high profile American companies. Should these companies start to go under as a result of increased pressure on their balance sheet from rising interest rates it might expose China to even greater losses than they have been experiencing in recent weeks."

He took a quick breath then resumed, before Darbinder could intervene, "If that happens there is the definite possibility that China might decide to cut her losses and dump all her U.S. assets and excess dollars into the market."

He paused, theatrically, before saying, "Of course, this would be catastrophic for the world economy."

Darbinder blinked, then he rallied, "The question has to be asked, Ahmed, why would they cut their losses? Surely they would be affected as well?"

Ahmed now appeared very comfortable, seemingly he'd forgotten the camera and was chatting as if to a friend, "China's economy is still relatively strong and they might feel that they can ride out the ensuing economic tidal wave far better without American debt hanging around their necks. Nobody can know for sure the severity of the collapse that would follow, although most analysts agree that China would emerge the strongest economy. We mustn't forget that China knows all about going it alone."

"Meaning?" pressed Darbinder.

"Well," said Ahmed, "China was once a pariah in the west so she could easily withdraw again from world trade as such and live off her own economy...."

"But wouldn't that lead to major poverty? China is now the world's leading economic power surely the Chinese people themselves wouldn't stand for it."

"China is a capitalist country in name only," said Ahmed, "in truth it is still centrally run with the state subsidising major industries. China is more than able to survive the potential economic collapse or go it alone and there's not really anything the Chinese people can do to influence their Government. Also I don't believe that the will exists, not amongst the everyday Chinese peasant."

Darbinder nodded, urging him to continue although Ahmed needed no such encouragement.

"Naturally the nouveaux riche will be upset along with the western financed liberal groups but in general I think the Chinese people believe that their Government has their best interests at heart."

"And what of Europe?"

Something about Ahmed's casual statements was shocking Darbinder out of his normal calm. He was struggling to keep talking; his brain was working overtime on where best he should move his own assets.

"As it stands, Europe would collapse," Ahmed continued, "however, it has been speculated that closer European union could solve these problems."

"How would that help?" asked Darbinder wildly, "There's already a European Central Bank."

In the wings, Mohammed was trying not to laugh.

The urbane Darbinder had lost it.

Ahmed, in contrast, was the personification of calm, collected professionalism.

"Indeed there is, Darbinder," said Ahmed, "but the European Union is merely a group of independent nations who have agreed on a single market system to enable easier trading and movement across borders."

He continued smoothly, "Each European country has its own economic policy. When markets behave in a volatile way weaker countries may collapse, as occurred with Greece. It is this lack of central control that leaves the whole European economy open to collapse. Remember, Greece's debt isn't a great deal in actual monetary terms, yet it has placed huge financial pressure on the Euro."

"So what's the answer then?" asked Darbinder.

His voice was under control but an uncharacteristic frown etched his brow.

"One answer might be a single Central Bank running the economies of all of the member states, more or less the way the Bank of England or the Federal Reserve runs except in this case it would control the whole European economy. If one country ran into difficulty this Central Bank would have the freedom to deploy countermeasures for the whole EU economy without reference to any of the governments thus avoiding any re-run of the Greece, Spain, Ireland and Italian crises which nearly brought the Euro to its knees."

"Much closer union than currently," said Darbinder, stating the obvious.

Ahmed nodded, "Under the current system member states are free to set their own budgets but are always exposed in an economic crisis, threatening the existence of the EU and the Euro. It would make sense to have one Finance Minister responsible for a unified European Union budget incorporating the finances of every country in the Euro."

"How would this be received by the elected Governments of each member state?"

Ahmed shrugged, "If the crisis gets as bad as we fear, the only way to save the EU and their own economies would be closer economic union. One Treasury and ultimately, one Government running everything out of Brussels."

Darbinder looked horrified. "And how will all of this affect Britain post Brexit?"

"The British economy remains strong, Darbinder," said Ahmed, uncertainty in his eyes for the first time, "but, like everyone else, our national debt is too high to withstand the financial Tsunami that this crisis threatens to become."

"Would we have been better off if we'd still been in Europe?"

"Probably not," said Ahmed, "a crisis of the magnitude that is being predicted will damage if not completely destroy every economy in the world."

Darbinder's smile stretched his face as he worked the interview to a close, but the frown was still tightly in control of his forehead and he knew he had not made a good showing.

If he had been in any doubt the gleeful look on Mohammed's face would have dispelled that illusion.


Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 32 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

32

If the freedom of speech is taken away
then dumb and silent we may be led,
like sheep to the slaughter.
George Washington


The Preacher sat and stared at the wall.
Barry leant back in the armchair and studied the man in front of him for some time, funny how he'd never really noticed the shape of his head before, cloaked as it was in long straggly hair, the grey overtaking the brown; he was reminded of Charlie Brown, the round headed kid.

"What do you think of what I do?" said the Preacher.
Barry was shocked; in all their dealings he had never been asked what he thought; the Preacher had never welcomed any pre or post discussion or comment. Barry played for time, hoping it was a random thought which didn't require an answer. No such luck.

"Well?" pressed the Preacher turning to face him.

Barry felt the full force of his penetrating eyes, "I agree with almost everything that you say..."

"Almost everything?" questioned the Preacher, "What do you not agree with?"

"Well....er...." struggled Barry, 'shit,' he wasn't prepared for this, "well, the theft of Palestine, and the creation of Israel, all that stuff about the Jews I guess, a bit anti-Semitic, isn't it?"

The Preacher stared at him, "I find it strange that the minute anyone says anything against the Jews they're accused of being anti-Semitic. Especially if they speak in support of the Palestinians or question the extent of the holocaust. I give you forewarning, I intend to speak on the Jews and their influence on our economic system again tonight."

Barry sat upright, he always worried when the Jews came into the Preacher's sermons, primarily because he didn't know what he was going to say, "Are you sure that's absolutely necessary? Some of it is hard for people to digest, at least I think that's what erm.... causes.... erm..."

"People fear any comments about the Jews because of the stigma that is instantly attached."

"Well yes," said Barry, "exactly, that's it. But the Holocaust did happen, I mean the Germans did kill 6 million of them, they've had it pretty bad after all."

"What about the 20 million Russians who died or the millions of Europeans? What of the millions of Chinese who died or the Germans who were killed who didn't want war and had nothing to do with the work of the Reich? What of the Germans in Dresden? What of the defenceless Japanese civilians murdered by the Americans at Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Are these any the less horrific?"

"Well erm....," said Barry, looking distinctly uncomfortable, "but the holocaust was so cold blooded, so methodical."

The Preacher turned away and stared at the wall for several minutes. "Have you been to Auschwitz?" he asked, his voice even and untroubled.

"Well, no," said Barry, "but we did it in school."

"So did we," said the Preacher, "and of course it's been on TV, then there was the film, and several documentaries."

Barry sipped his tea. He was not comfortable with this, not in the least bit.

The Preacher continued, "I think that if you asked most people to name one aspect about the war, they'd say the Holocaust. Why is that?"

"Well obviously it's such a terrible concept," said Barry, "the extermination of a people simply because of their race and on an industrial level as well, it's just shocking."

"A religion not a race but no matter..... the Americans exterminated the Native American Indian and no-one cares, in fact we are lead to believe that the Americans were victims of the savage nomadic warriors of the plains."

"But that was so long ago," said Barry.

"Is that disqualifying factor then? Time? And if that is so then should we still be talking about the holocaust so many years later?"

"I'm serious," said Barry, "you can't go there, people will not tolerate you questioning the holocaust."

"Because it's anti-Semitic?" questioned the Preacher. "What about the killings regularly committed by Israel in Palestine? Can I mention that? What about the prominent Jewish banking families, the same bankers that have brought the world to the edge of bankruptcy and despair? Can I mention the same Jewish families who now control the most powerful western governments through their financial support to political parties? Or are all of these things out of bounds because of the holocaust?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," said Barry, "these things you mention, they don't lessen the holocaust. You can't just go steaming in there like you usually do, this is a whole different ball game."

"I didn't say that the Germans and East Europeans didn't kill millions of Jews," said the Preacher, "I merely said that the Israelis and the western Jews are capitalising out of our deference, our reluctance to challenge them."

Cheers

Arun








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Chapter 31 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

31

The government, which was designed for the people,
has got into the hands of the bosses and their employers, the special interests.
An invisible empire has been set up above the forms of democracy.
Woodrow Wilson

The room had emptied slightly; Nobby had left with Mort, ostensibly to take him back to his room for his medication and a lie down. He planned to use the opportunity for a stiff drink to calm his nerves. The mistreatment of a U.S citizen was causing him concern and a split loyalty with regard to his antecedents was giving him a headache. Gil had done the same for Reg, despite his muttering that he was quite capable of walking by himself, thank you very much. Although these departures had created a restlessness in those left behind no-one else looked like leaving, ‘more excitement than they’d had in years’ was the main audible comment.

“There was a fear in the West in '54,” began Bob, “within the corporate world, that communism would win. There was growing anti-American feeling spreading across the world and it sent a lot of people into a near state of panic.”

“McCarthyism,” whispered Dora.

“We’d had the McCarthy purges in the US,” said Bob, “and weeded out potential traitors but in so doing, we also turned off a lot of Europeans. We stopped the spread of communism but strengthened the left wing groups in Europe and they had to be stopped.”

“That’s ridiculous,” stated Esmé, “those poor people weren’t communists; they were just liberal minded individuals who were standing up for the rights of ……”

“Appreciate the sentiment but if we could come back to that later,” said Mackie.

“It needs to be said,” pressed Esmé. She rammed her bottom lip upwards and, frowning heavily, stared at Bob.

Bob shook his head and took another sip, looking up at his interrogator, “Ok, what now?”

“Continue from where you left off,” Mackie said, fixing Esmé with a commanding stare.

“As I was saying before the lady interrupted, key members of the aristocracy, the industrialists, bankers, CEOs whatever, you name it, they all got their invites to attend a meeting held at the Bilderberg Hotel in Holland.”

“Is this about the Illuminati?” said Bill, “Because if it is then it’s a load of rubbish.”

“No, it’s not about the Illuminati,” said Mackie, “now please stop interrupting.”

There was a rustling of indignation in the room; they hadn’t got as old as they were only to be told what to do by an interloper with bushy eyebrows. Alb stood up quickly and made conciliatory gestures and the noises subsided. Gil and Nobby used that moment to slip unnoticed into the back row, Nobby slightly inebriated but mellow.

“You gotta remember, back in ’54 we were at the height of the Cold War," said Bob, "It got serious back then, we were dealing with the end of democracy, the end of our freedoms, the damned commies were winning for Christ’s sake, they were outperforming us everywhere and they’d just bled us dry in the Korean War. People didn’t have the stomach for fighting anymore. Something had to be done to stop the spread of communism.”

At the mention of the Korean War a collective sigh went round the room, a memory shared.

Bob raised his empty glass and Mackie refilled it, “So they met, the most powerful and wealthy people in the west and they discussed what should be done to put the world back on track.”

“They discussed how to beat the spread of communism, you mean,” said Bill.

“Exactly,” said Bob.

“So what’s all the fuss about?” demanded Bill.

“I would imagine that you include socialism in that statement,” said Dora.

“Socialism is communism by stealth,” hissed Bob.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Ron, stung.

“Back to ‘54,” said Mackie, throwing a dark look at Mags. She raised her shoulders helplessly.

“I don’t think you’ve been listening,” said Esmé, roused by Dora and Ron's courageous interjections. She was bobbing up and down, trying to make eye contact with Bill whose comment had enraged her, “they were trying to stop the spread of social freedoms in the west.”

Ron’s head was nodding his head up and down, he’d not realised Esmé and Dora were of a socialist bent.

“That’s not what he said,” argued Bill.

“I think you’ll find it’s exactly what he was saying,” said Fiona, tartly.

Mackie glared at each one individually, daring a further comment then signalled for Bob to continue.

Bob shook his head wearily, bloody Brits, they just don't get it, then he tried again, “They had to infiltrate and destroy the left wing movements, they had to get control of the media so they could influence the public and they had to gain political power. So that’s what they did.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” asked Harry.

“Looking for ways to control us,” said Dora, her tone flat.

“No, you’re wrong,” argued Bill. Dora turned her back towards him.

Bob was still speaking, “In a lot of countries it seemed to work fine, mainly third world countries, Asia, Africa and South America but the Europeans were a bit trickier.”

“What about Britain?” asked Val, determined her voice should be heard, “what did you do here?”

“They blackened Harold Wilson and the Labour party for a start,” said Ron.

“Well, that would’ve been easy enough,” sniped Bill.

“Hah!” said Bob, his face alive with malice, “you got no idea how deep we got into your poxy little country.”

Bill’s shoulders jerked back and his chin jutted out; he saw no need for insults and disparaging comments.

“Where'd 'you think the IRA got its funding? That was us.”

"But the US backed us against the IRA," said Ron.

"Jeez," said Bob, "look fella, the politicians say one thing and then tell the agency to do something different; we were solid with the IRA."

"Let's leave the Irish thing alone for a bit," said Mackie, sensing this could go on a while and would lose him his audience.

"No!" said Lenny, angrily, "I want to know what he's talking about, I lost some good mates to those bastards and I want to know what went on."

“We’re digressing,” said Mackie, directing his gaze at Lenny, trying to calm the man by dint of personality, “keep it strategic, please Bob.”

“Strategic, right,” said Bob, “so, the Bilderberg’s determined that America was the most powerful country in the west, economically the strongest and, therefore, the country best placed to plough the furrow.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked Fiona, hissing in Pete's ear.

“It was decided that all western investments and political drive would be put into the US and global dominance would come from her ability to put troops on the ground anywhere in the world.”

“What does this all mean, Mackie?” asked Mags, the question on her lips sounding more imperative to him.

Mackie signalled Bob to wait and then addressed her question, “At this meeting of the wealthy members of the western world they decided they had to take control of where the west was headed; to avoid it slipping into communism.”

“I got that,” said Mags, snippily, “but what’s he talking about now?”

“The group still meets up every year. It calls itself the Bilderberg group, after the hotel. The crux of matter is that they are the real rulers of the western world, not our governments.”

His words echoed round the room. There was a moment’s hush, then a buzz of mumbled incomprehension and mutterings of ‘what did he say?’ from several of those caught napping and murmurs of ‘I don’t understand.’ from those that did hear.

Finally Alb spoke loudly for all of them, “What do you mean, they’re the real rulers?”

“The most powerful people in the world, the richest people in the world,” said Mackie, a shrug evident in his shoulders, the nearest they would get to an apology from the messenger, “They meet and discuss what should happen and then they send the politicians to do their bidding. Unelected and unaccountable rulers, a bit like kings and queens, you might say.”

“And they're called the what?” said Dora, her voice high with tension.

“The Balderbags,” said Ron, knowledgeably, he’d been listening.

“Bilderbergs,” corrected Harry, absently, still trying to process the message.

“But what does any of this mean?” demanded Bill, “and is it so bad if all they’re doing is trying to fight communism?”

Mackie nodded at him, “When they formed the battle was against communism. But once formed they attacked everyone, even those who were just a little bit to the Left of centre. They did it here in the UK as well. We let them do it.”

“Why?” demanded Mags, "We were always fighting the enemy, I was fighting the enemy, and our boys were fighting the enemy."

Gerry growled something in support, his face an unhealthy puce. He was trying without much luck to control the effects of Mackie’s words on his blood pressure.

"Not so, Margo," said Mackie, "we were fighting to build private fortunes for the hidden few. And everything that destabilised the western world was conceived and formulated by the Bilderbergs.” He waved his hand towards Bob, who was a bit glassy eyed now having polished off quite a bit of scotch, “Bob, examples please.”

“You want general or UK only?”

“General will do,” said Mackie.

“Hah!” said Bob, “JFK.”

“You killed JFK?” said Sticky, the scale of this just percolating his brain.

“No way,” growled Wilf.

“OK, no, we didn't,” agreed Bob airily.

“Wait a minute,” Mackie intervened, anxious to avoid being side-tracked, “let me explain. The powers that be, we’ll call them the Bilderbergs for ease, the Bilderbergs decide what they want to happen and they formulate an outline plan for it. So if we take a recent example, 9/11 for instance….”

“9/11?” repeated Nobby, inebriated or not, this was not acceptable, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“If you’ll give me a moment,” said Mackie, “you need to understand, the Bilderbergs will have sat round the table and the topic of Peak Oil will have come up…”

“Peak Oil?” Sticky squeaked.

“What’s Peak Oil?” asked Esmé. It sounded like something she might need to protest about.

Bob sighed, “There’s a finite amount of easily accessible oil in the world, and we’ve already got to most of it. But the West needs oil. Can’t exist without it. Industry would collapse, economies would collapse, we’d be thrown back into the dark ages if we ran out of oil.”

He waited for comments that didn't come then continued, “So the Bilderbergs decided that the West….”

Mackie broke in, “Bearing in mind that the most powerful voices in the Bilderbergs belong to the industrialists, the CEOs, the rich, the bankers etc…..”

“Ok,” said Bob, glaring at Mackie, “the wealthiest people in the world are members of the Bilderbergs so they decided that they had to have control of the remaining oil fields in the Middle East, and as they had influence over the US….”

“Influence?” questioned Mackie.

“As they owned the US government,” Bob amended, “it was decided that America, having had all the military investment, would be the country to lead the assault on the oil fields.”

“But that’s rubbish,” Gerry had had enough, “they went into the Middle East because of 9/11.”

“Just continue, Bob,” instructed Mackie, putting his finger out to forestall further outbursts.

“The Bilderbergs wanted to control the oilfields, they wanted the US to provide the hardware and the troops on the ground, they just needed a pretext.”

“9/11,” offered Mags.

“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Gerry, “you’re not going to tell me that the Bilderbergs did 9/11.”

“Jesus,” sighed Bob, “is this guy for real?”

“The Bilderbergs determine policy,” said Mackie, turning towards Gerry for a moment then back to the rest of the room, “and then contract it out to specific corporate bodies or to specific governments. In this instance they contracted out the hit on the twin towers to Al Qaeda. Demolition was pre-positioned in the buildings by Mossad and the subsequent invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq was left to the US. Blair was roped in to give the American initiative impetus, because Bush was such a fop.”

“Wait a minute,” said Harry, “how does that work?”

“Look,” said Bob, irritably, "I could tell you folks everything, but the whole thing is so large, so huge that you could never fully understand it. Heck, I was involved and I don’t understand it. I don’t even know who did what or who gained, all I know is our overall strategic aim was to get control of the last big oil reserves for western corporations before the Middle East tore itself apart."

“Let me get this straight,” said Ron, standing up to make his point, “are you seriously suggesting there is a group of super elites who run the world? Who meet secretly every year and decide what’s going to happen in the world?”

“Not secretly, bold as brass, but yeah,” said Bob.

“And they tell political leaders what to do?” said Ron.

“Now you're getting it,” said Bob.

“But that’s impossible,” said Val, “I mean we’d know, wouldn’t we?”

“How would you know?” asked Mackie, “These people are very good at what they do. We had 9/11 and for about a year it was accepted without question. Then people began to ask questions, to doubt the official version, to ask how it was that those buildings could actually collapse.”

“That just shows we are able to question, what's your point?” said Bill.

“They reacted,” said Mackie, “in 2005 the price of oil started to rise. Three years later, after enough stress had been created in the lower end of the economy, when enough lower class households had been placed under enough pressure and the banks had exposed themselves enough we had the greatest financial crisis the world has ever known.”

"What does all that mean?" demanded Alb.

“Who is asking about 9/11 now?” asked Mackie, “Only the families of the deceased. That's my point, everyone else is too worried about their finances, losing their jobs, prices in the shops.”

“You can't mean...?” Dora was appalled, the answer to awful to contemplate.

“They created the recession. That's exactly what he means, Dora,” supplied Harry.

“But how is that possible?” asked Val.

“Because it’s not a real recession,” said Mackie, “they created the pressures that brought it on and they can remove them when they want. They can print more money as and when they like. They are in control of the whole thing, they control the whole game.”

“This is too weird,” said Sticky.

“No, it's very simple," said Mackie, “once you accept the basic premise of a group of really rich people, all nationalities, who meet every year and decide what needs to happen to ensure their continued prosperity." He stared out at their shocked faces, "Once decided they subcontract the relevant tasks down to political leaders or to CEOs of lesser or different corporations. QED.”

“But what’s that got to do with our plans to hit back at the Muslims?” Frank had found his voice.

Mackie stared at him.

“He's saying they aren’t the problem,” said Tom, turning to address Frank.

“They are pawns,” said Mackie, “moved around a global chess board.”

“So whenever they want something to happen...” offered Val.

“They just move a pawn,” said Mackie. He was growing tired now; if they hadn't grasped the message after all this effort then too bad; they weren't worth any more of his time.

"Are we pawns now?" asked Gerry, truculently, "Are you telling us the truth or are you using us to do your dirty work?"

"Truth be told, you can do as you please. Take it or leave it, I did a favour for a friend coming here," He glanced over at Mags and crinkled his eyes, "the rest is up to you."

He poured two generous drinks, palmed a small tablet into one of the glasses, paused to swish it about, then, handed it to Bob asking, "Are you ready to go?"

Bob nodded, they clinked glasses, raised a toast, "To those who believe," and downed their drinks in one swallow. Thirty seconds later Bob was dead.

Cheers for reading

Arun







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Chapter 30 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

30

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible
will make violent revolution inevitable.
John F. Kennedy

The communal lounge was silent; the first row had shrunk back, uncertainty etched on their faces. Ron, for one, was wishing he was anywhere else and was looking round frantically for an escape route. He caught Wilf’s eye, saw the withering contempt, and he shrivelled into his seat. In return for a promise to cooperate, Mackie had settled Bob more comfortably, one wrist tied to the chair, allowing him freedom to express himself and relief to anguished shoulders. It had done nothing for his overall mood however.

"You’ll get nothing from me,” Bob protested, “I wouldn't help these old fools if it was the last thing I could do on this earth."

“Where’s the harm?” said Mackie, “What can these old fools, as you call them, possibly do?”

“Less of the old,” said Fiona, sharply, with a toss of her head. The words sounded loud in the room.

“And less of the fools,” added Dora, emboldened by Fiona, but not sufficiently to say it in much more than a whisper.

“Come on, Bob,” said Mackie, “I could tell them but I thought it would be better coming from the horse’s mouth, so as to speak, more believable. I want to discourage them from making a mistake.”

“We aren’t making any mistakes,” said Wilf, up till then content to listen, but now irritated by the whole tone, “and we don’t need your help.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Pete, wanting to show Fiona he too was brave enough to speak, although if she’d seen how his knees were shaking she would have been less impressed.

“I’d like to hear what Bob has to say,” said Mags, which was true, there were certain gaps in her knowledge that she hoped to fill tonight.

There was an uneasy silence, then Alb added his support, “I would as well, we’re here, what can it hurt?”

Mackie poured another Scotch and placed it on the table in front of Bob. He grabbed the glass and downed it in one, “Another.”

“Say 'please',” Fiona had spoken before she knew the word was out of her mouth.

Bob flicked her a nasty look and waited as Mackie refilled his glass, he took a sip this time and placed it on the table.

"I want to go to the toilet," Mort announced. Nobby stood up and moved swiftly to his side, knowing there was often a short window of opportunity between word and deed.

Mags moved closer to Mackie and whispered in his ear, those nearest could make out the words ‘comfort break'.

His eyebrows met in a huge frown and he looked as if he was about to argue then he relented. In actual fact he’d been needing relief for the past hour but had been fighting it. At her words the need rose again and he gruffly agreed that people leave in pairs as long as he was among the first.

He handed the policing of Bob over to Alb and walked swiftly through the chairs, heading for the visitor's toilets he'd noted on the way in, following in Mort and Nobby's wake. Wilf got up and followed him; that created a mass exodus.

It was a good half an hour before the room had re-settled. Bob had helped himself to a few more whiskies in that time and was looking considerably more relaxed.

Mackie noted the mood change and pressed the advantage, “Come on Bob,” then, with a nod to Alb, “as he said, what can it hurt?”

Bob stared at him, the whiskey had done nothing to alleviate his cold dislike of the man interrogating him. Then he looked out at his audience, a rag tag group of complacent, comfortable old folk whose little world he could rock if he wanted to. He sighed deeply; he'd been blown. If Mackie knew he’d been putting out feelers then his own people would know. There'd be a hit on him, sooner rather than later. He dropped his head onto his chest. The silence stretched. Everyone in the room was waiting on his decision; truth be told, he was enjoying the feeling.

Val could wait no longer, “What’s it going to be then, Bob?” She was a bit shocked by her own temerity; she’d addressed the prisoner directly. She hoped it had not gone unnoticed by Alb.

Bob lifted his head and sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised, “Well sister – it’s right what Mackie says; I’m as good as dead. So I have nothing to lose. Hell it might even be fun. I’m kinda proud of my work and I never get any recognition for it.” Mackie grinned, sensing capitulation, then Bob added, “But I wish I could be around when they work out it was you.”

Unperturbed Mackie retorted, “I’ll take my chances, Bob, just tell these old folks what’s really going on in the world. I can guarantee they’ll be impressed with what you have to say.”

“Untie me?” said Bob, pulling at the one wrist still attached to the chair, with little real hope of success in the appeal.

Mackie shook his head, “Start with Wilson,” he ordered.

“Woodrow Wilson?” said Jonesey.

“Harold Wilson, I’ll bet” said Sticky.

“The very same,” said Mackie.

“Bloody commie,” hissed Bill.

Bob grinned from ear to ear, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

“Wilson was never a commie,” said Mackie.

“See,” said Ron, losing his fear in the need to have a dig at Bill.

“I knew he wasn’t as well,” said Dora.

“I did that,” said Bob, losing the details of an entire team working with him, to take the kudos all to himself, “planted everything, did everything to discredit him, ruin the man.”

“But why?” demanded Dora.

“It was either that or kill him,” said Bob. He was clearly enjoying himself now, the pain he’d been experiencing with his arms tied behind his back fading to a minor discomfort. The freedom to wave one arm about was intoxicating.

“Kill him?” gasped Dora, clutching Esmé’s arm in her distress.

“You can’t meddle in our internal politics,” said Sticky, “besides, we were allies.”

Bob laughed, “Jeez, you Brits really bought that crap?” He laughed again and Mags decided that she disliked him intensely; she found herself accepting happily Mackie’s stated intent to do away with him at the end of the session.

“There’s no need to scoff, young man,” Cynthia’s dislike seemed a match for Mags’, “we are a friendly people and trusting with it.”

Bob ignored her, directing his scorn back at Sticky. “Listen bud, we've been here running the show for your people for decades. Hell we've eliminated every leftie trouble maker that's popped up and you've all been none the wiser.”

“What’re you talking about,” demanded Gerry, "Who have you eliminated? And how?"

"Hah," said Bob, getting into his stride, "The ‘who’ isn't hard to work out or the ‘how’ for that matter. Heck, don't you guys find it odd that some really influential people keep dying? Jeez?"

"Like whom?" nothing but chapter and verse would satisfy Esmé.

"Doesn't matter who," said Bob, thinking ‘whom?’ "but come on, I mean, do you really believe that so many key people on the left can die of heart attacks, strokes or best yet, hypothermia?"

"What about Lady Di?" asked Esmé, fidgeting in her seat.

“Look, just take it from me, ok, we were never your allies,” he was getting frustrated; the inability to respond to the urge to throw both his hands in the air was causing him some irritation, “Christ, don’t you people know anything?”

They all stared at him. Apart for Mackie and Mags, it was clear none of them had a clue what he was talking about.

“Listen,” said Bob, recognizing belatedly that he would have to start with the basics, “the greatest threat to American world domination has always been Britain.”

“Britain a threat? What about the Russians?” demanded Gerry, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He threw a quick glance at Alb, comforted to see his own disbelief mirrored there.

“The Russians were never really a problem,” said Bob.

“But their nuclear arsenal?” pressed Nobby. The more Bob said the more tensed up Nobby became. There was no doubt he was feeling an affinity with the prisoner, the shared American blood was causing conflict within him.

“Yeah, some arsenal,” Bob scoffed, “besides they were never going to fire them. If they did we’d let fly ourselves.”

“MAD,” said Ron.

“Yes it most certainly is,” said Dora, her head going up and down with the words.

“He means Mutually Assured Destruction,” said Alb, his voice muted, uncharacteristically out of his depth.

“Actually,” said Mackie, “none of this is relevant, Bob's just playing you.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Nobby.

“He’s talking nations,” said Mackie, “it’s not about nations, although they are used to achieve the ultimate goals. I think we should start further back, say with May ’54.”

The only thing ‘54 signified to the old soldiers in the room was the end of the Korean War, but that was March not May so it was left to Val to ask, “May ’54? What happened in May ‘54?”

“The birth of the New World Order,” said Mackie nonchalantly.

“The new world what?” said Mort. He’d dozed despite all his efforts to stay awake, and struggling up out of his seat, he tried to get a grip on what was happening.

“Don’t worry,” Lenny shushed him gently, patting him till he sank back down and relaxed.

“The New World Order,” said Bob, “Hah! Funny.”

“Not actually that funny,” said Mackie.

“Why’re you so high and mighty?” demanded Bob, “you’re as dirty as me.” Mackie raised an eyebrow and took another sip of his Scotch. “Ah,” Bob said, seeing an opportunity to sow unrest, “didn’t tell you all his little secrets, did he, Margo.”

“Don't be so familiar,” said Mags, “you don’t know me.”

"Ah but I do," said Bob, with an unpleasant leer, "not quite in the biblical sense, but almost.”

Gerry struggled to his feet, but relented when Alb pulled at his arm, with a hissed, “leave it, not the place or time.”

"What does that mean?" demanded Mags, surging out of her seat, a blush spreading upwards from her ample bosom.

“Bob - continue with the story, but from ’54,” murmured Mackie, obviously uncomfortable.

"I want to know what he means." She was indignant, oblivious of anything but the two men in front of her.

Val nudged Vera, her face alight with interest at the potential for a salacious exposé.

"The winter of '77," said Bob, clearly enjoying himself, "Palm Springs. It was real nice of you guys to play away in my back yard."

"Mackie? Did you know about this?" Mags was smouldering, Gerry had never seen her look so attractive.

"Bob did bring it to my attention one time when he wanted a favour.” He moved to stand between her and the grinning Bob, “I'm sorry, Margo, I didn’t think he’d mention it."

"You sure had a nice body in those days, Margo,” Bob’s grin had reached face stretching proportions. Gerry made to rise again but Alb had him tethered.

She wanted to slap the smirk off his face but instead she retorted, "I'll have you know, I still have, thank you." Then she flushed bright red and sat down.

“’54 please Bob," said Mackie.

“’54? You were there, you could tell them about that.”

“I know,” said Mackie, “but I was just a foot soldier, you were further up the food chain.”

“And what if I don’t feel like it?”

“Just tell them,” said Mackie. He moved to where his coat was folded over the back of a chair, and proceeded to remove a small cloth roll up bag from the pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Fiona, her voice shrill with concern.

“Persuasion,” said Gerry, his voice grim, still restrained by Alb, his eyes betraying his wish to be the one dispensing it.

Mackie took another sip of his Scotch.

“You’re not going to torture him, are you?” Fiona was horrified.

Cynthia gasped and prodded Wilf who was sat alongside her, his eyes alive with anticipation, “Do something,” she hissed.

“Yeah, do something, you useless fuckers,” Bob was too anxious to be subtle, “He’s gonna torture me, and you gotta stop him.”

“Let him play it out,” whispered Sticky in Tom’s ear, “he’ll break quick enough, he’s a desk jockey, never been in the field.” Tom was shaking his head, no words available to him.

The room felt silent, hushed, as they all watched with an awful sense of inevitability. Not one of them was strong enough to intervene alone and for some reason none of them felt enough for Bob to rally together. Cynthia and Esmé were huddled closely together, aghast.

Mackie untied a small knot and unrolled the cloth bag revealing the small wooden handles of several unidentifiable tools. He was whistling under his breath, a tune no-one recognized.

Bob cried out, directing his gaze at Fiona, half out of her chair with worry, “Don’t let him torture me, you desiccated crone.”

She sank back into her chair and dusted off her hands, leaving him to his fate.

“From ’54 Bob,” said Mackie, selecting a small but seriously sharp instrument from the array before him.

Bob weighed up his options, they weren’t great and he knew it; for one thing this roomful of old biddies was not going to intervene on his behalf. If he held out Mackie would torture him and he’d talk. Then Mackie would kill him. If he told all he knew without being forced into it, Mackie would kill him. Whichever way you cut it he was going to die, it was just a question of how painful his last few hours on earth would be. His shoulders slumped with the whistle of air he let loose.

“I knew you’d see it my way,” said Mackie, putting the instrument back with its companions, still within easy reach, “right, now…from ‘54” 

Cheers for reading

Arun








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Chapter 29 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

29

Greed, selfishness, no care for the weaker.
Sharp elbows and sharp knees, this was the way forward.
People saw the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Glenda Jackson on Margaret Thatcher's England.


The Preacher stared out into the packed auditorium. He didn't register the numbers or any feeling of success; he just felt the need to speak what was in his heart.

"Today I want to talk about power," he said, "what it is, what it means for you and me and who has it." He started to patrol the front of the stage, "The first thing is to know what power is, how it represents itself in our world," he stopped and looked out, "not so easy in the minefield of our so called modern democracy. We are told that we are free because we have freedom of choice," he raised his shoulders slightly, "but do we and what is freedom of choice? If you really had freedom of choice would you choose to spend the best years of your life trapped behind a desk or in a factory working for pennies whilst the rich sit back and live off your labour? Is that really what you would choose for yourself?"

He returned to his pacing, "The way I define power is by asking myself, am I living the life I want to live? Do I live my life fulfilling my potential for happiness?" He quickened his pace and answered his own question, "I have lived a full life, I have had great wealth and I have had the company of more beautiful women than it is possible to recall."

He knew he would be alienating some of those in his audience, the ones who had newly arrived to witness the phenomenon he was becoming, but he needed to say it all, "I have owned vast properties, yachts, planes, I have snorted with the stars, I have been at the top," he paused and the silence was absolute, "but if you had asked me was I happy I would have said no; despite all the paraphernalia that goes with vast wealth I was not fulfilled. I did all of those things because it was the thing you did to fit in. I did it to show I had succeeded, but all I actually succeeded in doing was driving an unbridgeable chasm between myself and my wife and alienating my children." He was clearly groping for a way to describe the contradiction, "Great wealth allows you to choose how you live; my shame is that I chose to live it in a decadent way."

He fell silent for few moments in grave contemplation of the errors made in his previous life. The strength in numbers of his loyal followers, who understood where he had come from, was sufficient to quell any murmurings from newcomers such that the auditorium fell silent with him. Then he spoke again, gravely, "A great many people do not have the luxury of choice. I want you to guesstimate how many people don't have the ability to choose their own life style, who don't have the gift of self determination. Call out your ideas."

When the last offering had died away the air still resonated with numbers and percentages plucked from their imaginations.

He waited for this to fade before he spoke again. "Those who possess real power number only in the thousands, not even 1%. These people control the two key resources to our lives."

He paused a moment then said, "The first is very real; energy. The people who own and control the natural resources of this planet determine your future; they have the power to create recessions or to feed the world. But I have to ask you a simple question. Given that the energy resources on this planet are here for all of the earth's inhabitants, in that they didn't evolve over millions of years with someone's name on them, they are natural and they are there for you, me and every other person on this planet, why is it that only a few get to live off the wealth generated by the supply of energy?"

He raised his hands questioningly, "How is that?"

"The second is money. As we all know, money was introduced to make complex transactions easier. However, now money exists to make more money and we are all slaves to the process. We are always being told that the economy is struggling or that it is booming or that there isn't enough money in the system or perhaps there's too much money, but what is money? Can I mine for it? Can I grow it? Can I pluck it from the skies? No, money is a fiction, it doesn't exist, it's a magic trick and we've all been taken in by it."

He wandered over to his faithful red box, leaned down and took a sip of water from the bottle concealed behind it, "How is it that a few bankers and investors can create a system whereby we trade a fictional resource, one without substance, one they control the supply of, one they have bribed our leaders into accepting as the only valid tender and one we must use, how is it that we sit here and allow them to tell us it is the only way for the world to continue? Bearing in mind that the minute we accept that lie is the minute we pass total power to the banker."

He stared into the audience, "Do you understand? Money isn't real, they made it up but they tell us that without it we have no place in this world, we are skivers and must be castigated yet money is the invisible chain that binds us to the treadmill that keeps the wealthy in place."

No one answered, but it was clear they were thinking this one through.

"So we have two key components representing true power; energy and money. The people who control these also control your lives." He strolled around the stage, still talking, "I want you to imagine a world where everyone has the energy supplies they need, where people have the food they need, where people have the medical care they need, where children have the education they need, where everyone works for the benefit of everyone else, where money has no place and you will perceive Utopia. Humanity's true dream. This world we inhabit now is a beastly business brought upon us by our own weakness and greed, further manipulated by the unscrupulous greedy psychopaths who want to rule."

He stopped and stared out into the audience, "Jesus drove the merchants out of the temple, showing us the true way. Money and the worship of money is a crime against humanity. It is the basest transgression that drives us to sell our services, our labour, our time, our minds and our bodies."

He paused, "Now comes the difficult part, I am going to offer an alternative view of two highly respected and politically sanctified individuals." He waited for a response, nothing yet, "Milton Friedman and Sir Keith Joseph, the men who proposed and propounded our modern day capitalism. It was they who sold the concept of zero state involvement to our leaders; the corollary of that being the creation of a harsh individualist world where money is master and man its servant. Both are of Jewish ethnicity and it is my contention that if they had lived in Jesus' time he would've driven them out into the street."

He pointed out into the audience, "I draw your attention to the presentation made by Milton Friedman in 1972 in which he defines Jewish influence in the market free for all that is modern neo liberalism and neo capitalism, clearly stating that Jews can only survive and prosper in this environment. It is this exact environment he has worked to introduce to the most powerful of the world economies."

He moved slowly around the stage, "This is contrary to what was hitherto the accepted view. Most countries had a culture of support for their own nationals, a culture of nation and society, these have always been the founding bedrocks of any successful society. Even Israel, because a great many social thinkers and revolutionaries come from the Jewish faith, all seeking and espousing social and economic equality. Friedman criticises Israel because he feels that the state of Israel has abandoned what he terms as the Jewish way, it's also why he condemns all Jews who support communism."

The Preacher paused, "This is to miss the point, Israel is a state under threat of attack and the Jews of Israel have discovered the necessity of fostering the belief in nation, of a society that looks after the weak, in order to strengthen and prolong the existence of the many. This is what nationhood does for people, this is what society does for nations but all of these things were rejected by Friedman and Joseph and ultimately our leaders of the day, Thatcher and Reagan. They adopted Friedman's neo liberal philosophy of free capitalism. A 'may the best, aka greediest, man win', survival of the ablest, a dog-eat-dog free for all, which has lead to the massive gulf that now exists between the obscenely wealthy 1% and the, increasingly impoverished, rest of society. Which has ultimately driven the West into economic ruin."

The hall was silent as those present ruminated on his words. He turned and left the stage. Barry might have called it quitting while he was ahead.
 
Cheers for reading

Arun









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Chapter 28 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

28

The individual is handicapped by coming face to face with a conspiracy so monstrous he cannot believe it exists.
J. Edgar Hoover

Alb and Gerry had worked tirelessly with a bit of help from Tom, Wilf and Harry to bring chairs in from the dining area and these were now interspersed between the recliners and wing chairs in the communal lounge. Gerry had over done it and was suffering quietly in a corner, his face mottled and his breathing erratic. Alb was concerned but was pretending not to notice his friend’s distress; unless he took an obvious ‘turn for the worse’, as always Alb supported his friend's right to suffer stoically.

The room had filled slowly and the residents sat chatting desultorily, waiting for the promised guest to arrive. Alb had been deliberately vague about what they should expect, although he had linked it to the conversations they'd been having.

The door at the back of the lounge opened and Mackie shambled in. He was wearing an unseasonably warm, dark navy coat, the collar of which was up round his ears, almost as a cover for his face. Incongruously a rucksack was slung from one his shoulders. He was pushing another man in front of him, this one hooded and with his arms behind his back. Mags took up the rear, eyes darting from side to side, smiling indiscriminately. Alb got up and moved to meet them, his face an amazed question mark; this had not been part of the plan.

"Who in heaven's name is under that hood?” Cynthia’s voice was rich with outrage.

Mags took the floor, her hands in front of her, imploringly, "Okay everyone, I'd like to introduce you to Mackie, an old friend of mine." There was a hint of panic in her eyes, visible to those at the front. "Mackie has seen service at the very top of the chain and is privy to some very sensitive data. I've invited him here today to help guide our deliberations."

“Cynthia’s right,” said Esmé, her Greenham Common instincts coming to the fore, “who's that other chap and why is he restrained?”

“Who involved Mags at this level?" whispered Val to Vera, "Who said she could go around inviting any old body to our meetings? This is very serious; we're getting involved in some dangerous activity. What if he goes and tells the police, or what if he even works for them as some kind of snitch or something?"

“More to the point, who’s he got under that hood? It’s all so unexpected.”

"I agree," said Doris, "she's always poking her nose in trying to boss everyone around and organise everything."

"What's happening, Gil?" whispered Morty, his eyes wide. Gil shook his head and shrugged, waiting for enlightenment.

"Well, I've heard rumours about Mags," said Lenny, leaning across to Dave who was sitting open-mouthed, "seems back in the day she was a spook."

"And you're telling us this now?" Gray shot back, never quite as relaxed as Gil.

Alb found his voice and gesturing to Mackie, he spoke with more authority than he felt, "Thanks for meeting up everyone," his eyes skittered round the room, taking in the general atmosphere of shock and disbelief, it wasn’t often they had a hooded prisoner in the lounge, after all, "I’ll hand you over to Mackie who can explain everything."

He walked over to sit with Gerry, who was still a quite unhealthy colour but had a sparkle of amusement in his eyes which Alb took as a good sign. Mags felt her legs growing shaky and sat down before they gave away the level of concern she was feeling.

Mackie appeared completely unfazed by the explosion of mutterings that accompanied his entrance. He took the back pack from his shoulder and removed his coat; this action revealed his face. His eyes were twinkling under bushy eyebrows and he gave them an almost merry smile; ever the showman, he was enjoying himself. He dragged a couple of chairs over and guided the hooded man into one, settling him down with a not unfriendly shove. Then he reached into his backpack and produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

"If I'd known there was a bottle of old malt going around," Wilf whispered to Dave, whose mouth had dropped open on Mackie's arrival with prisoner in tow and had yet to close, "I'd have brought me own glass." Almost alone in his equanimity Wilf was ready to be entertained.

"Okay," said Mackie, lifting the hood with a theatrical flourish. The man thus revealed was dishevelled, red with anger, his mouth gagged. He looked to be about eighty, give or take a few years. "This is Bob."

There was a confused buzz around the group.

"Bob is an old associate of mine …say hello to Bob, everyone.”

There was a muted response from the room, a few did as they were bid but for the most part there was a recalcitrant silence.

"Bob is going to explain things to you."

Bob shot Mackie a hard stare.

"Don’t be like that, Bob," said Mackie, removing the gag, "what difference does it make to you?"

"What the fuck are you playing at, Mack?" demanded Bob, his voice a growl, and his eyes wild, "You won’t get away with this. This is kidnap, you bastard."

"Sounds like a Yank, to me," said Wilf, loudly.

"Bob, face facts - you're a retired operative; no-one in the CIA cares about you anymore. The minute you didn’t call in they wrote you off. Collateral damage. They won’t look for you." He paused and sloshed a generous measure in one of the glasses, "You’re peripheral to their games now; they just like to keep you in the loop so they can keep tabs on you."

Bob snarled, showing his teeth.

"He’s a bit feral, isn’t he," whispered Vera. Val nodded, eyes stretched wide. Ken clutched her arm, too shocked to speak.

"Don't worry about Bob," said Mackie, "that’s just his show face, you know what Americans are like. He’s a pussy cat really, aren’t you, Bob."

"See, I said he was a Yank," Wilf said, even more loudly.

"You just let me loose and you’ll see how….."

Mackie continued his cool dismissal of Bob's value, "They’ll decide someone dispatched you for something you did somewhere down the line. They'll tidy things up. Close the door behind you so anything you might know won't be of use to anyone." He paused and turned his gaze out towards his audience, a long stare that took in the whole room, then calmly continued, "Although you've been non-essential for such a long time I doubt you know anything of real value. They won’t trouble themselves too much. But then, I'm not telling you anything you don't know."

"What's he talking about, Mags?" whispered Alb.

"And what's all this with Bob?" added a confused Gerry.

"Now then," said Mackie, "When Margo called me up the other day I had no idea what it was all about." He smiled at Mags who was sitting looking up at him, attentively absorbing his every word. "In our line of work, once you've retired it's best to stay retired. Not draw attention to yourself. People still in the business can start to worry what your motivation might be."

"What's he talking about?" whispered Val to Ken, "what line of work?"

“Anyway, we met and she explained your current thinking and I must admit I was surprised." Mags fixed him with a look, daring him to tell them he had laughed, praying he wouldn't be so unkind, he winked at her and topped up his glass, "She persuaded me that it would be useful if I came along and filled you in on a few things."

"I could really do with a drop of that," moaned Wilf.

"You don't want to do this, Mack," hissed Bob.

"I was reluctant, besides which I had no idea how to do what she was asking," said Mackie, "I mean, some things are so far off the chart of daily understanding that you can't tell people about them, especially if they've had no knowledge or no interaction with such events."

Alb was beginning to regret going along with Mags on this; he felt patronised and had clearly lost face with the others. This put him so far beyond the pale he'd probably have to move out.

"Just offer us a fucking drink, will ya, you bastard," hissed Wilf, but under his breath.

"But then I had the idea of bringing Bob along." Mackie was completely at ease, apparently oblivious to the consternation of his audience, "Bob is going to help me explain everything to you, he's pretty much going to make everything clear."

"Explain what things?" asked Val. The words emerged louder than she'd intended. This man was clearly unhinged and he was such a large person as well, she didn't feel safe, not even with Ken sitting almost in her lap.

Mackie made eye contact with her for the first time, noting with wry amusement how she shrank away from his gaze, "The world is seen by the majority in its two dimensional form. The thing to remember is that there are the people," he said indicating the rest of those present in the room, "who are moving around, going about their daily routines, running their lives and theoretically making their own decisions based on the concepts of free will.."

He paused, rather theatrically it seemed to Alb who was still feeling patronised, "....and then there are people like me and Margo, who inhabit a level above and who are privy to certain knowledge that makes it clear that things aren't quite as simple, that there isn't such a thing as free will, that we all do what we've been programmed to do, what we are meant to do."

"Pss, Margo indeed!" Val hissed, instantly extremely irritated. She'd forgotten her fear in her annoyance at Mags being included in this strange man's lecture; one thing for sure, she would be impossible to live with after this.

"You really don't want to do this Mack," Bob was insistent, straining forward trying to rise but his arms being tied behind him affected his balance.

"Oh, but I do, Bob," said Mackie.

"I don't understand," said Gerry, "do what exactly?"

"You're crazy," Bob's voice cracked with fear, "you'll be signing your own death warrant."

"Not a big issue for me, old boy," said Mackie, his eyebrows beetling towards his hairline, "inoperable cancer, I only have a short while left," he smiled down at Mags on hearing her intake of breath, “so when Margo contacted me and asked if I'd help, well, it felt like Karma."

"Hah!" said Esmé, with a triumphant glare at Cynthia. She knew what she and Doris really thought of her, and now here was this educated chap talking about Karma, bold as brass.

"What the fuck's any of that got to do with me?" growled Bob.

"I thought you might want to help me clarify a few things for them."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Don’t you want some credit for your achievements," said Mackie, "before you die?"

Bob scowled and muttered angrily, "I'm not ready to die."

"I suggest you prepare yourself, because whilst I may only have a few months, that's considerably longer than you have, Bob."

"You bastard!" Bob went back to his struggle with his bonds, frenzied now, wriggling so hard he slipped off the chair and onto the floor, writhing, he kicked his legs out and struck Mags.

"Sweet Jesus," hissed Bill to Johnno, who was clutching his chest in rising panic, "what the hell?"

"Come on, Bob," said Mackie, making no effort to pull Bob to his feet, allowing him his desperate but useless struggle. Mags moved carefully out of his reach. "It was always going to end this way for you. We’d do it, the Russians would do it or your own people would do it. Who knows? You know that as you get nearer to the end of your financial security, the people up there," he pointed to the ceiling, "start to worry what you might try and do for money."

"I'm fine for money," spat Bob, looking up at him, "don't go spinning your bullshit, Mackie."

"Come now, Bob," said Mackie, "we both know that's not true. Word has it you've already tried to contact one or two unsavoury characters. Now, if we know that I'm damned sure your people know a whole lot more."

"You can't do this to me," growled Bob, still struggling with his bonds. He got himself up on one elbow and spat out at those nearest him, "What's the matter with you people? Let me loose. You don't owe him a thing."

"Oh, but I can and I will," said Mackie, relentless now. He leaned over and pulled Bob up by his jacket lapels, then turned him round and propelled him back to the now upright chair, pushing him onto it, none too gently, "the only question is how helpful you're going to be in our current enterprise."

Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 27 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

27

Efforts and courage are not enough without purpose and direction
John F Kennedy

Mags stood and watched from the doorway for several minutes, unnoticed by Alb as she had been so often over the years. He was the kind of man, if she'd met him in her younger days, who could have persuaded her away from her devotion to MI6. With a soft snort of self derision she shook herself out of the reverie; like as not he wouldn't have noticed her then either.

"Albie," she said.

Gerry turned at the sound of her voice, "Mags?"

"Could I just have a quick chat with you, both of you?"

"Sure," said Gerry, enthusiastically, pleased to see her as always, "what is it, Mags?"

Alb seemed to be rooted in his chair. She tried again, "If we could just pop to my room, I have some more Angel cake, and we could have a cup of tea as well."

"Absolutely," said Gerry, leaning over and giving Alb a nudge.

Mags lead the way, Gerry following, admiring, as he always did, her no nonsense walk and erect bearing. Alb dragged himself to his feet; he was finding it hard to motivate himself since the meeting in the shed. He'd had high hopes but nothing had come of it; no-one but Gerry really seemed up for it and it wouldn't work with just the two of them.

He was still disconsolate when he walked into Mags' living room and the cheery decor did nothing to dispel his gloom. The cake helped a bit as did the steaming mug of tea, a combination he always found hard to resist.

"What is it, Mags?" asked Gerry.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet." She looked uncomfortable but there was a determined glint in her eye. "He's an old associate," she continued, "more an old friend, really."

Gerry frowned, she'd not mentioned this 'old friend' before, he knew she'd been a JP in the past and must have known people, but he'd thought she was alone in the world, a bit like himself.

"Right," said Alb, lack lustre, "no bother, whenever he's around." He'd not quite forgiven Mags her recent outburst, all that nonsense about Chamberlain, calling him Neville like she knew him, insulting Churchill.

"He's around now, I just need to ask him to pop along."

"What, right now?" Alb was quite put out, tea and cake had been a pretext then, he hated being tricked. He thought about leaving but was too tired and too comfortable to move.

"Yes," said Mags, sending a text, "he'll be along shortly."

"This is all very cloak and dagger," said Gerry, curiosity piqued.

"Clandestine, I call it," muttered Alb, cutting himself another generous slice of cake.

Mags spoke again, "There's something I need to tell you before he arrives." Her voice was unusually strained. She paused then said hurriedly, "He used to work for MI6."

Gerry started in surprise, Alb froze in the act of biting into his cake. "MI6?" said Gerry incredulously.

"MI6?" repeated Alb.

They looked at each other, both knowing what the other was thinking, aware of the risks they had taken speaking of their intention to wage war on Islam and the other foreigners in their midst.

Mags, more than aware of the tensions that accompanied knowledge of her acquaintance with members of MI6, sipped her tea.

"That might not be such a good idea," said Alb, cake and fatigue forgotten, pushing himself out of his chair, all set to leave with alacrity.

"It's too late now, Alb," said Mags, "he's here and he's coming in."

The door opened and a large man shambled in, age indeterminate but certainly not young, all bushy eyebrows and jowls, your favourite uncle, not anyone's idea of MI6. Alb was distinctly unimpressed and completed his exit of the chair to stand pugilistically in the middle of the room.

"Mackie," said Mags, moving to greet him, "these are two of my best friends, Albert Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot. Albert, Gerry, meet Sir Robert MacDonald. "

"Mackie will do nicely," said the man, his voice a rumble. There was a residual accent in his voice; Alb linked it to the name and placed it as Scottish. "Pleased to meet you," the man continued, proffering his hand to Alb and Gerry in turn, enveloping theirs in his own bear like paw.

"Pleased to meet you," muttered Gerry, as they shook hands. Alb remained silent, jaw gritted.

"Margo has told me all about you and your plans to get back at the enemy within," said Mackie.

Gerry flicked a look at Mags, stupidly more thrown by 'Margo' and all that this entailed than the fact she'd told this stranger all about their revolutionary intentions. He then looked to Alb for guidance, ready to act now if need be, he'd get Mackie, big bear of a man though he be, but Alb would have to keep Mags quiet and subdued, he couldn't because he was in love with her.

"She has asked if I would offer my assistance in some way."

"Your assistance?" said Alb, still standing, still ready to do battle if needs must.

"Yes," said Mackie, seating himself, "I hear she makes the most wonderful Angel cake." As he spoke he leaned over and cut himself a large slice.

"Why would you help us?" asked Alb, "and how?"

"For one thing I'm going to tell you what's really happening in this country," Mackie's words were slightly muffled by the cake filling his cheeks, "and to the rest of the world."

"What does that mean, exactly?" asked Alb.

"I'm going to tell you who is really behind it all," he glanced up at Mags, "Any chance of tea?"

"Behind it all, behind what?" said Gerry, outraged by his casual familiarity.

"He means that most things happen for a reason," said Mags, stepping in before it got out of hand, "that there's a plan in place. He thinks your actions will either speed the process along or, if you listen to him, you might be able to slow them down."

"Gentlemen," said Mackie, "please take a seat and let me explain." Alb and Gerry hovered in the middle of the room, neither knowing what they should do. "Come," Mackie urged, "take a seat and I'll try to explain, as briefly as I can."

Alb puffed out and then, shrugging, sat down. Gerry did likewise, both of them perched on the edge of their seats, ready to make a nifty getaway.

"I won't give you detail," said Mackie, "that will come later when we present to your colleagues."

"Who said you could present to our colleagues?" questioned Alb. He was damned if he'd be cowed by Sir bloody MacDonald, or whatever his name was.

"They will have to know why we need to attack the people we eventually attack," said Mackie.

"We already know what we're going to do," said Alb, truculently.

"Quite so," said Mackie, eyes twinkling. For a moment Gerry thought he might be suppressing laughter but the moment passed. "But there might need to be modifications and we will need to explain them properly."

"Please, can you just listen," said Mags, "if anyone knows what's going on in the world it's him."

"For you, Mags, if you really want us to," said Gerry, "we'll listen, won't we, Alb."

"What?" Alb was caught in mid-glower, still wondering whether he could take Mackie in a ruck.

Gerry nudged Alb in the ribs and hissed, "Just say you'll listen, play it cool."

"Oh," said Alb, smiling without teeth, "yes, of course, we'll listen, Mags."

Mackie shook his head, "I heard that."

"What?" said Gerry, innocence personified.

"I heard you whisper to him," said Mackie, in irritated disbelief, "you people are so childish. Margo, what have you got me into here?"

"Please Mackie," said Mags, "just give them a chance."

He shook his head, but relented, "Okay, listen up, imagine it's 1066. The Saxons, are ruled by an alien elite, the Normans and William the Conqueror is king. He makes all the laws which are designed to be advantageous to the Normans." He paused while Mags excused herself, going into her kitchenette to make a fresh brew and get some more Angel cake. "Everything is now owned by the rich French and the Saxons are nothing but serfs in their own land."

Alb and Gerry nodded. Alb was hooked, albeit reluctantly, history of England, right up his street.

"OK, bounce on a few hundred years; WWII has just ended, Labour has been elected and Socialism and Communism are on the rise and Fascism is dead."
Alb and Gerry nodded affirmatively.

"Or is it?" asked Mackie.

Alb frowned and Gerry sat upright, "Of course it is," said Alb, darkly, "and Hitler's dead."

"Hitler's dead yes," said Mackie, "but what of fascism?"

"Well, granted there are still pockets of it around," said Gerry, "even today there are a few fascists here and there."

"That's because it was never our intention to defeat fascism," said Mackie, "Hitler and Germany, yes, but fascism, no."

"That's not right," stated Gerry, "we were fighting Fascism and the Nazis, my dad fought in....."

"Forget all that," said Mackie, impatiently, "you just need to think about what fascism offered to those in power."

"It didn't offer anything," said Alb.

"Wrong, it offered them everything," said Mackie. "It offered them a way to get back the power they had lost through the centuries. It showed them how easy it was to control the masses through propaganda. It demonstrated that you can kill millions of people and, as long as you don't lose, get away with it. It showed them how they could become supremely wealthy whilst fooling the masses into thinking they too were better off. It showed them how to reduce the people to a modern serfdom, one managed by their own greed as opposed to restrictive laws. And the invention of the computer chip enabled them to globalise their ambitions."

Mackie had said all of this almost without pausing for breath.

Alb was stunned into a resentful silence. Gerry was clearly mesmerised.

Into the slight lull Mags brought fresh cups of tea and another huge Angel cake.

"Now then," said Mackie, "think again of 1066 and how William ran England, a country he had recently conquered. Now expand that idea to consider that the world is not a series of countries but just one country. The new global aristocracy are the bankers, the corporate executives, the sports personalities, singers, artists and the like. Their ultimate goal it is to reduce the rest of you to debt ridden slaves, thus raising themselves up further, to the level of gods."

Gerry bit into his Angel cake, not tasting it, wide eyed.

"That is why Britain has become a multi-cultural society, that is why America is on the edge of civil war, that is why manufacturing has been sent to the third world, that is why the banks are orchestrating a financial meltdown. The intention is that by the end of it, there will be no strength left anywhere in the world to resist their plans. There will be no one country that has an identity strong enough to allow its people to stand proud and defy them. You are to become the new serfs to the new global aristocracy in what is commonly referred to as the New World Order."

"The new world what?" said Alb, so much for commonly referred to, he'd never heard of it.

"So you see, attacking a few foreigners isn't really going to stop them, is it?" said Mackie.

"It's all very well for you to say," protested Alb, "but what can we do? Who can we attack?"

"Don't listen to him, Alb mate," said Gerry, "he's just trying to put us off."

"No he's not," said Mags, "he's telling you who the real enemy is, the real people we should be attacking."

"So who are they then?" demanded Alb.

Cheers for reading

Arun








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Chapter 26 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

26

This is the culture you're raising your kids in, don't be surprised if it blows up in your face
Marilyn Manson

The Preacher was reminiscing, "When I was young, after school I would play out with my friends. We'd play football, or war. I remember my mother cooking bangers and mash, steak and kidney pie, chops, liver, stew with dumplings, we always had a pudding that involved custard and at weekends we had a roast."

He started to pace, "I remember music from the time, Beatles, Stones, Queen, Led Zep, Lizzy and I remember feeling English. Even though I had a sense of what Britishness is, I still felt English and I had a great pride in my country, in my parents and my grandparents and what they achieved in both world wars. I remember reading about the Empire with even greater pride. When I recall these things I feel a sense of being comforted in a blanket, secure and familiar."

He paused, then continued, "When we are young we are moulded by the world that surrounds us and for me that world is the smell of home cooking, the sound of kids running and laughing through the streets, and I get a great warmth in my heart when I think of it. It is the period that moulded me and involved family, community, socialising with my neighbours, going to the local shop, a relationship with the streets round where I lived. For me it represents England." There were a few nods from the audience, and a few audible sniffles, "I would imagine it was much the same for the Hitler Youth."

Barry felt the atmosphere change in that second.

The Preacher noticed nothing, "They would have been moulded by the events of their youth and would find modern Germany abhorrent. Even if they rejected everything that Hitler and the Nazis stood for they would not be able to shake that sense of home, of comfort when they think of those times or when they smell a familiar smell. That's the way of things," he said, firmly, looking out into his audience, "the undeniable truth, we humans are moulded by events that occur in our youth, by the world that surrounds us."

He placed his hands behind his back and paced, "So what effect did Maggie's world have on the youth of the 90s and what effect is our current world having on today's youth?"

He gave them a moment then continued, "In the 90s it was all about the drive for profit over people, looking after number one, greed. It saw the birth of the new elite; the super model, the celebrity footballer, the consumer culture. It also heralded the collapse of the nuclear family, social integrity, social unity, the church. The collapse of everything that makes us civilised."

He paused, then spoke again, "Which is why young people today are unable to form lasting relationships; because they have been ingrained with the concept of self. Why people today are obsessed with the lottery; their only goal in life is to be mega rich. Why youngsters fill up their bags with cheap products that they know were made in sweat shop conditions; because nothing in their youth taught them respect for others and they have no empathy.
Why, in the midst of a riot, people are less interested in expressing demands for social change than in looting; because their education did not include social awareness but was instead bent on self-aggrandisement. It is why those who are lucky enough to have work look with disdain at the unemployed, the weak, the homeless who beg in the streets; because they were told in their youth to despise those who couldn't help themselves, told that all beggars are frauds who live in big houses or those on benefits are getting a huge whack for free whilst they have to strive. All of which is why society is crumbling."

After a brief pause he continued, "Consider, if this is how the working-age youth view things, what are our young children becoming? What are they being taught in school? Are they allowed to be English in this day and age when everywhere accusations of racism are being flung about and when, if you go by the adverts on TV, you could be forgiven for thinking that white English people are now in the minority. Are they aware of our history and encouraged to understand its context? Are they allowed original thought? Or are they being mass-produced like the Hitler Youth to serve the messages up to their parents about racism, green issues, homophobia and date stamps on food as if it's mandatory, and not up for discussion?"

His pace quickened as he patrolled the stage, "We must ask ourselves, where did this pressure to deconstruct England originate? Where did this desire to destroy English culture come from? Who initiated it and why have successive Governments propounded it?" He raised his hands, "Why are they trying to eliminate the English race? Why are they trying to pretend that the White Anglo Saxon doesn't exist? Why are they hell bent on writing the British Empire out of history? Why are they destroying the bonds that held us together for nearly five hundred years?"

He waited for an answer but there was none forthcoming, although there were plenty of glum faces, "Because the rich no longer need us, they have their new cheap labour force, in the third world. We are excess to requirements."

He grabbed a bottle of water and took a long drink, then continued, "Quick history lesson, we had the Yom Kippur War 1973, the Arabs attacked Israel, six days later it was all over and the Israelis had won.
The west backed Israel and the Eastern block backed the Arabs. In revenge for their defeat OPEC put up the price of oil and created an artificial reduction in supply, a pending reality the experts have termed as Peak Oil. Here in Britain we had the three day week under Heath, power cuts, rising unemployment and a rise in union strikes. This all culminated in the Prime Minister, Jim Callaghan going cap in hand to the IMF."

He glared out at his audience, "Now I ask you, what lessons did the government learn from this experience? They learned that if ever there was another energy crisis our society would be in trouble, we would have strikes, power cuts, riots and a general social leaning towards communism. This would be intolerable to the British Right wing and to the Americans who, believe me, are always meddling in our affairs."

He pointed to various people in the first few rows, "They had to ensure that by the time Peak Oil became a reality we were no longer socially cohesive, that we had lost our collective sense of ourselves. Thus, through the intervening years they have been deconstructing our social unity, they have been denying Britishness to the extent that they are planning the break up of the UK. Eventually we will be nothing more than a few small weak countries stationed off the coast of Europe, meanwhile the rich will still be rich for they will continue to receive their tax free off-shored dividends from the companies they've been setting up in the Third world."

He strode to the front of the stage, "We are weak now because we are divided and have become anti-social; we are willing to buy things from high street shops when we know their supply chain uses child slave labour, we don't care about our neighbour any more, hell, we don't even look after our own parents. We shove them into old people’s homes to be looked after by East Europeans who don't give a rat's arse about them, they might even bear a grudge against them for something that might've happened in WWII, who knows, but the thing is we don't care. We don't care how many old people die in the winter from cold because we resent them their winter fuel allowance, we resent them their pensions, we resent them their homes and their money. We demand that they sell their homes to pay for their care in their dotage yet when it's our parents we kick up a fuss because we might lose our inheritance."

There was a lot of shuffling in the audience, a few people stood as if planning to walk out but they were grumbled at and promptly sat down again.

"The truth is, they have splintered us, they have shattered our society so that they can better control us when prices rise and wages drop, so they can maintain their own station in life whilst we suffer when the world's fuel crisis hits, and it will hit, it's here with us now and they have seen how dangerous it will be for their world, for the world of the rich. The Occupy movement reminded them what cohesion can do, the Independents tried and were squashed before they had a chance. The powers that be fear what the people can do if they gather and move as one and they will not allow this to happen."

"How do you boil a frog?" he demanded, and then answered his own question, "slowly."

Cheers

Arun







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Chapter 25 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

25

Civilization is a conspiracy. Modern life is the silent compact of comfortable folk to keep up pretences.
John Buchan

They’d taken a taxi into town, not realising the Dog & Duck was only a 10 minute walk away from the Village until they’d passed it. The person most annoyed by this was Wilf; he felt it showed him in bad light that he’d forgotten something so elemental so soon in the campaign. He was hiding his embarrassment behind a mask of ill humour. They were gathered in a loose group round the corner to the pub; standing about disconsolately. At Wilf’s gruff command they looked at each other blankly; nobody moved.

"Fuck sake, Bill, you go," said Wilf.

"Why me?" asked Bill. He’d put on his best suit for the expedition and was reluctant to go into the pub; seedy being his immediate judgment on the place. "Why not send one of them?"

"Because I picked you," said Wilf, not to be gainsaid, "now get to it."

"You can’t boss me around," said Bill, clearly nervous, "Just because you've got some crazy name, I could be tough from the old days as well, you know." They all stared at him; Wilf snorted. "Well I could," Bill drew himself up to his full height, lower back pain be damned, "and in fact, the guys in the darts team called me 'Crazy Bill'."

"No they didn't," said Johnno. He would put money on this being a lie.

"They damn well did," said Bill, "Crazy Bill they called me."

"Why?" demanded Pete.

"What?" Bill looked uncomfortable, not expecting to be pinned to this level of detail.

"Why?" repeated Pete, "Why did they call you Crazy Bill?"

"Was it 'cause you ate someone?" asked Ron.

"Oi," snapped Wilf, "you promised not to mention that again."

Bill was fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Why?" pressed Johnno.

"Okay, okay…well, not everyone can put three Cadbury's crème eggs in their mouths at once, that's all I'm saying."

"Bloody hell's bells, Bill," snapped Wilf, "just get in there and scout the bloody place out. Then nip out here and tell us who’s in there."

Bill frowned, and recognizing that he’d seriously lost face, conceded he had no choice. He pushed out his chest and walked off. As soon as he was out of sight he slowed down and if he could’ve gone somewhere else without having to meet any of them again in his whole life then he would have done. He crossed the road and approached the pub, consumed with deep dread. Wilf had been adamant that his contact would be in the public bar, this was part of the reason Bill had been reluctant to go; he far preferred the saloon atmosphere. He gave the door a hard push. It gave more easily that he expected and he entered with a flurry, almost falling into a bare and squalid looking room.

Behind the bar was a big busted blonde with a heavily wrinkled face, stage make up and a space in her thin mouth where he could imagine a dangling cigarette. He scanned quickly round the room; two suits in the corner drinking fruit juices, and three young girls giggling down the other end of the bar.
He turned and left before the barmaid noticed him.

He approached his friends feeling quite chipper; he’d been on a reconnoitre and he’d come back with Intel.

"Good," said Wilf, on hearing his report, "we're here first. That will give us the upper hand if things get nasty."

"Eh?" Pete’s voice rose, "What does that mean?"

"You can't always tell with these blokes, sometimes they want the trade, sometimes they just want your money.” Wilf looked behind him, squinting, “we need to be careful, so look tough when you walk in, okay."
They stared at him and then at each other. "Show me your mean faces," he ordered.

Bill closed his eyes, how had he got involved in this? Ron had previous close knowledge of Wilf and what he knew did not lead him to think he could avoid complying; he frowned heavily and hunched his shoulders. Johnno followed suit. Pete managed a sneer.

Finally Wilf was satisfied and leading the way, walked across the road with a strut that had faded to a hobble by the time he got half way over.

He struggled the rest of the way, finally leaning up against the door jamb to catch his breath. He waited until the others joined him then pushed the door, almost falling in and Bill cursed himself for failing to give him the heads up.

Wilf recovered quickly, scowling and cracking his fingers, and then he patted his pocket, hoping to create the impression of a concealed gun. He rolled his shoulders then crossed the room to the bar, followed by Pete, swaggering and sneering, doing his Elvis roll. Ron, came up behind, frowning and snarling audibly. Johnno had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing and was walking quite naturally. Bill had adopted a cross between John Wayne and Robert Mitchum; not a good look.

The girls at the end of the bar fell silent, the suits in the booth both stared and the barmaid sprung into life, "What can I get you, darlin'?"

"Whiskey and ice," said Wilf.

"Same,” said Pete, even though he never touched the stuff.

"Beer," said Ron.

"Guinness," said Johnno.

"Orange juice," said Bill. They all stared at him. He looked blankly back. Ron made a face, such that Bill felt like punching him and then he got the picture, "Oh, Scotch." He said it with a swagger, adding, "on the rocks," for good measure.

They took their drinks and seated themselves at the back of the room, "Always keep your backs to wall," said Wilf, "You never know in this game."

In the corner the suits went back to their conversation, the girls went back to their giggling.

"What time will they be here?" asked Bill.

"Soon," stated Wilf, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

"I need to know what time,” this from Pete, getting agitated. “Only I promised Fiona I'd go to shopping with her."

Pete’s voice was quiet but firm, fear of Fiona outweighing fear of Wilf. She'd been furious when they'd waited for over an hour in the ornamental shrubbery for Alb and the others, who failed to turn up. She'd been convinced Alb had agreed to the meeting she'd suggested and it had been very hard to persuade her against seeking him out and to use her exact words,' giving him a piece of my mind'. The shopping trip had been arranged as a bribe almost.

"I said soon," snapped Wilf.

One hour later they were still sat in the same places, with the same drinks in front of them.

"What time did you agree they’d be here?" asked Bill.

"Soon," Wilf’s voice was a low growl. Ron shivered.

"I think it's pretty clear they’re not coming," said Johnno, bravely.

"It's all part of the game," said Wilf, "maybe something spooked them, sent them running, you never know in this business."

"Spooked them?" questioned Bill, "like what?"

"Like the pigs," Wilf spat out the word, "tricky bastards, always snooping around, could've been listening in on our confab."

"Really?" questioned Ron, disbelief in his tone. "How will we know if that’s what happened?"

"If Butch don't turn up then I'd say it's a sure bet that the filth rumbled us, he could be banged up right now for all we know."

Bill flashed a look at Johnno; Wilf was turning into someone else before their eyes. All this talk of guns and pigs and filth was quite out of character. Or at least out of sync with what he’d been presenting to the outside world.

"Cripes," said Pete, reverting to boy's own language.

“You lot sit put, I'll use the pay phone," said Wilf, "try to make contact again, see if I can work out what's going on." With that he slouched off in the direction of the pub pay-phone.

"Do you boys need another drink there, darlin'?" asked the bar maid, hailing Wilf as he passed by, obviously only waiting her opportunity, clearly irritated that they had only bought one drink each.

"Do you mind," snarled Wilf, lurching into the bar as he passed, "this is business."

"Okay deary, keep your wig on."

Wilf fiddled with his hair, and then dropped his hand with an aggrieved "fuck off." He dug out his dog-eared piece of paper and dialled.

"Butch?" said Wilf, responding quickly to the voice the other end, "Why ain't you here?"

"Who is this?"

"Flippin' 'eck Butch, it's me, 'Mad Dog', why ain't you down the 'D & D'?"

"'Cause I ain't a fuckin' prick like you, what the fuck do you think this is, Dog? Eh?"

"Butch," said Wilf desperately, "I need some....."

"Yeah I know, you need some stuff, you need some kit, 'cause you're gonna go play mercenaries in the jungle all over again, you're only eighty fuckin' four aren't ya', so no problems, I can see you now, charging around, 9 lb rifle, 60 lb pack blasting away at the Mau Mau in temperatures of fuck knows what...."

"Butch," snapped Wilf.

"No, you shut it, Wilfred."

"'Mad Dog'," corrected Wilf.

"'Mad Dog'!" yelled Butch, "Fuckin' 'Mad Dog'? Who the fuck you tryin'ta kid? An' stop callin' me Butch, I'm not the Butcher, anymore, am I? So get it fru your fick 'ead, my name is Warren. Warren fuckin' Tucker so fuck off. An' stop bloody phonin' me."
Wilf had the phone clamped to his ear; the slam as Butch hung up echoing down the line. He looked across the pub to his co-conspirators, smiled, then carried on talking into the dead phone.

"Why's he smiling?" asked Pete, "I thought we were meant to be looking mean."

Wilf carried on his imaginary conversation for a good ten minutes before hanging up and returning to the table, "They're not coming."

"Why not?" asked Pete, already unfolding his legs, seized up from sitting so long.

"Busies rumbled us," said Wilf, "We gotta get out of here."

"What? Straight away?" asked Johnno, he usually gave himself time to adjust to movement, and planned excursions and forays with great care.

"Place will be crawling with pigs," said Wilf, "leave your drinks, we gotta make a run for it."

"Running is not an option," said Bill, speaking for all of them.

They exited the pub, using their normal walks now that no-one was there to impress, and made their way to the bus stop. No thought of hiring a taxi now.

"When's the next one due?" asked Pete, mindful of Fiona’s promised shopping trip.

"5 minutes," said Johnno, peering up at the board.

"Is it our bus, though?" asked Ron.

"Don't bloody worry about that," said Wilf, maintaining the pretence, "we’ve gotta make as much distance between ourselves and this place as possible."

The pub door opened and the two suits strode over to their blue car, "You going to call it in Sarge?" asked the shorter of the two.

"Waste of time, I dunno where they get their info these days but this one was bollocks, fuckin' terrorists buying guns, who dreams up this shit? That's what I want to know."
 
Cheers

Arun






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