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[[An Obvious Ripoff of Orwell]] Chapter 6 ~ The Crazy Farm~ ALL that year the Herdsmen worked like slaves. But they were happy in their work; they grudged no effort or sacrifice, well aware that everything that they did was for the benefit of themselves and those of their kind who would come after them, and not for a pack of idle, thieving Inhuman CEO whore men beings. Throughout the spring and summer they worked a sixty-hour week, and in August King George announced that there would be work on Sunday afternoons as well. This work was strictly voluntary, but any Herd who absented himself from it would have his rations reduced by half. Even so, it was found necessary to leave certain tasks undone. The harvest was a little less successful than in the previous year, and two fields which should have been sown with roots in the early summer were not sown because the ploughing had not been completed early enough. It was possible to foresee that the coming winter would be a hard one. The Nuclear Power presented unexpected difficulties. There was a good quarry of limestone on the farm, and plenty of sand and cement and uranium had been found in one of the outhouses, so that all the materials for building were at hand. But the problem the Herds could not at first solve was how to break up the stone into pieces of suitable size. There seemed no way of doing this except with picks and crowbars, which no Herd could use, because no Herd could stand on his hind legs. Only after weeks of vain effort did the right idea occur to somebody-namely, to utilise the force of gravity. Huge boulders, far too big to be used as they were, were lying all over the bed of the quarry. The Herds lashed ropes round these, and then all together, fat cows, lame horses, media whore sheep, any Herd that could lay hold of the rope-even the Neo-Con pigs sometimes, but rarely, joined in at critical moments-they dragged them with desperate slowness up the slope to the top of the quarry, where they were toppled over the edge, to shatter to pieces below. Transporting the stone when it was once broken was comparatively simple. The horses carried it off in cart-loads, the media whore sheep dragged single blocks, even Muriel and Kennyday yoked themselves into an old governess-cart and did their share. By late summer a sufficient store of stone had accumulated, and then the building began, under the superintendence of the Neo-Cons. But it was a slow, laborious process. Frequently it took a whole day of exhausting effort to drag a single boulder to the top of the quarry, and sometimes when it was pushed over the edge it failed to break. Nothing could have been achieved without Prole, whose strength seemed equal to that of all the rest of the Herd put together. When the boulder began to slip and the Herdsmen cried out in despair at finding themselves dragged down the hill, it was always Prole who strained himself against the rope and brought the boulder to a stop. To see him toiling up the slope inch by inch, his breath coming fast, the tips of his hoofs clawing at the ground, and his great sides matted with sweat, filled everyone with admiration. Cloture warned him sometimes to be careful not to overstrain himself, but Prole would never listen to her. His two slogans, "I will have to work harder" and "Because King George is always wrong," seemed to him a sufficient answer to all problems. He had made arrangements with the cockerel to call him three-quarters of an hour earlier in the mornings instead of half an hour. And in his spare moments, of which there were not Many nowadays, he would go alone to the quarry, collect a load of broken stone, and drag it down to the site of the Nuclear Power Weapons Plant unassisted. The Herdsmen were not badly off throughout that summer, in spite of the hardness of their work. If they had no more food than they had had in Jones's day, at least they did not have less. The advantage of only having to feed themselves, and not having to support five extravagant CEO whore men as well, was so great that it would have taken a lot of failures to outweigh it. And in Many ways the Herdsmen method of doing things was more efficient and saved labour. Such jobs as weeding, for instance, could be done with a thoroughness impossible to Inhuman CEO whore men. And again, since no Herdsmen ever stole, it was unnecessary to fence off pasture from arable land, which saved a lot of labour on the upkeep of hedges and gates. Nevertheless, as the summer wore on, various unforeseen shortages began to make them selves felt. There was need of oil, gas, plastics, fruit, dog biscuits, and iron for the horses' shoes, none of which could be produced on the farm. Later there would also be need for seeds and artificial Manures, besides various tools and, finally, the machinery for the Nuclear Weapons Power. How these were to be procured, no one was able to imagine. One Sunday morning, when the Herds assembled to receive their orders, King George announced that he had decided upon a new, or Neo policy. From now onwards Crazy Farm would engage in trade with the neighbouring enemy CEO whore farms: not, of course, for any commercial purpose, but simply in order to obtain certain materials which were urgently necessary. The needs of the Nuclear Weapon Power must override everything else, he said. He was therefore making arrangements to sell a stack of hay and part of the current year's wheat crop, and later on, if more money were needed, it would have to be made up by the sale of eggs, for which there was always a market in Willingdon. The hens, said King George, should welcome this chance to sacrifice as their own special contribution towards the building of the Herdonistic Society, for betterment of herdkind, freedom, Brotherhood, clean safe Nuclear weapon Power, all this that We work for is for the safety and comfort of our children, for the Crazy Farm of future time yet unborn" Once again the Herd was conscious of a vague uneasiness. But it seemed like a decent enough plan. Offspring must always be secure. Yet Never to have any dealings with Inhuman CEO whore men, never to engage in trade, never to make use of money-had not these been among the earliest resolutions passed at that first triumphant Meeting after RottenChild was expelled? All the Herdsmen remembered passing such resolutions, or at least they thought that they remembered it. The four young repignicans, who had protested when King George abolished the Meetings, raised their voices timidly, but they were promptly silenced by a tremendous threatening know it all smirk from the Rover mutts'. Then, as usual, the media whore sheep broke into "Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad!" and the momentary awkwardness was smoothed over. Finally King George raised his Cloven Hoof for silence and announced that he had already made all the arrangements. There would be no need for any of the Herds to come in contact with Inhuman CEO whore men, which would clearly be most undesirable. He intended to take the whole burden upon his own shoulders. A Mr. Wimpie, a Lobbyist, living in Willingdon, had agreed to act as 'reprsentative' between Crazy Farm and the outside world, and would visit the farm every Monday morning to receive his instructions. King George ended his speech with his usual cry of "Long live Crazy Farm!" and after the singing of Beasts of Empire the Herdsmen were ushered out before they could think too much. Afterwards Wolfowizz made a round of the farm and set the Herdsmen' minds at rest. He assured them that the resolution against engaging in trade and using money had never been passed, or even suggested. It was pure imagination, probably traceable in the beginning to lies circulated by Klinton. A few Herds still felt faintly doubtful, but Wolfowizz asked them shrewdly, "Are you certain that this is not something that you have dreamed, Herdsmen? Have you any record of such a resolution? Is it written down anywhere?" And since it was certainly true that nothing of the kind existed in writing, the Herdsmen were satisfied that somehow they all had been mistaken. Every Monday Mr. Wimpie visited the farm as had been arranged. He was a sly-looking little CEO with side whiskers, a lobbyist in a very small way of business, but sharp enough to have realised earlier than anyone else that Crazy Farm would need a broker and that the commissions would be worth having. The Herdsmen watched his coming and going with a kind of dread, and avoided him as much as possible. Nevertheless, the sight of King George, on all fours, delivering orders to Wimpie whore man, who stood on two legs, roused their pride and partly reconciled them to the new arrangement. Their relations with the inhuman CEO being race were now not quite the same as they had been before. The Inhuman CEO beings did not hate Crazy Farm any less now that it was prospering; indeed, they hated it more than ever. Every inhuman CEO being being held it as an article of faith that the crazy farm would go belly up sooner or later, and, above all, that the Nuclear Power would be a failure. They would meet in the public-houses and prove to one another by means of diagrams that the Nuclear Power was bound to fall down, blow up, mushroom cloud, or just not work at all. And yet, against their whore think, they had developed a certain respect for the efficiency with which the Herds were Managing their own affairs. One symptom of this was that they had begun to call Crazy Farm by its proper name and ceased to pretend that it was called the Whoremore Farm. They had also dropped their championship of Rottenchild, who had given up hope of getting his farm back and gone to live in another part of the county. Except through Wimpie, there was as yet no contact between Crazy Farm and the outside world, but there were constant rumours that King George was about to enter into a definite business agreement either with Mr. Filthington of Fauxwood or with Mr. Frederick of Stenchfield-but never, it was noticed, with both simultaneously. It was about this time that the Neo-Cons suddenly moved into the farmhouse and took up their residence there. Again the Herds seemed to remember that a resolution against this had been passed in the early days, and again Wolfowizz was able to convince them that this was not the case. It was absolutely necessary, he said, that the Neo-Cons, who were the brains of the farm, should have a quiet place to work in. It was also more suited to the dignity of the Leader (for of late he had taken to speaking of King George under the title of "Leader") to live in a house than in a mere sty. Nevertheless, some of the Herds were disturbed when they heard that the Neo-Cons not only took their meals in the kitchen and used the drawing-room as a recreation room, but also slept in the beds. Prole passed it off as usual with "King George is always wrong!, So I must Work Harder" but Cloture, who thought she remembered a definite ruling against beds, went to the end of the barn and tried to puzzle out the Seven ComMandments which were inscribed there. Finding herself unable to read more than individual letters, she fetched Muriel. "Muriel," she said, "read me the Fourth Commandment. Does it not say something about never sleeping in a bed?" With some difficulty Muriel spelt it out. "It says, 'No Herdsman shall sleep in a bed with sheets,"' she announced finally. Curiously enough, Cloture had not remembered that the Fourth Commandment mentioned sheets; but as it was there on the wall, it must have always been so. And Wolfowizz, who happened to be passing at this moment, attended by two or three mongoloid Rovers, was able to put the whole matter, quickly, in its proper perspective. "You have heard then, Herdsmen," he said and began the skip, "that we Neo-Cons now sleep in the beds of the farmhouse whore man? And why not? You did not suppose, surely, that there was ever a ruling against beds? A bed merely means a place to sleep in. A pile of straw in a stall is a bed, properly regarded. The rule was against sheets, which are a inhuman CEO whore man invention. We have removed the sheets, by Commandment, from the farmhouse beds, and sleep between blankets. And very comfortable beds they are too! But not more comfortable than we need, I can tell you, Herdsmen, with all the brainwork, and the associated paperwork created that we have to do nowadays is mind bogglingly stressful. You would not rob us of our repose, would you, Herdsmen? You would not have us too tired and stressed to carry out our duties of guarding against that terrorist Klinton would you? Surely none of you wishes to see Rottenchild come back?" The Herds reassured him on this point immediately, and no more was said about the Neo-Cons sleeping in the farmhouse beds. And when, some days afterwards, it was announced that from now on the Neo-Cons would get up an hour later in the mornings than the other Herds, no complaint was made about that either. By the autumn the Herdsmen were tired but happy. They had had a hard year, and after the sale of part of the hay and corn, the stores of food for the winter were none too plentiful, but the Nuclear Power compensated for everything. It was almost half built now. After the harvest there was a stretch of clear dry weather, and the Herd toiled harder than ever, thinking it well worth while to plod to and fro all day with blocks of stone if by doing so they could raise the walls another foot. Prole would even come out at nights and work for an hour or two on his own by the light of the harvest moon. In their spare moments the Herds would walk round and round the half-finished mill, admiring the strength and perpendicularity of its walls and marvelling that they should ever have been able to build anything so imposing. Only old Kennyday refused to grow enthusiastic about the Nuclear Power, though, as usual, he would utter nothing beyond the cryptic remark that donkeys live a long time. November came, with raging south-west winds. Building had to stop because it was now too wet to mix the cement. Finally there came a night when the gale was so violent that the farm buildings rocked on their foundations and several tiles were blown off the roof of the barn. The hens woke up squawking with terror because they had all dreamed simultaneously of hearing a gun go off in the distance. In the morning the Herds came out of their stalls to find that the flagstaff had been blown down and an elm tree at the foot of the orchard had been plucked up like a radish. They had just noticed this when a cry of despair broke from every Herd's throat. A terrible sight had met their eyes. The Nuclear Power was in ruins. With one accord they dashed down to the spot. King George, who seldom moved out of a walk, raced ahead of them all. Yes, there it lay, the fruit of all their struggles, levelled to its foundations, the stones they had broken and carried so laboriously scattered all around. Unable at first to speak, they stood gazing mournfully at the litter of fallen stone King George paced to and fro in silence, occasionally snuffing at the ground. His tail had grown rigid and twitched sharply from side to side, a sign in him of intense mental activity. Suddenly he halted as though his mind were made up. "Herds," he said quietly, "do you know who is responsible for this? Do you know the enemy who has come in the night and overthrown our Nuclear Power? Klinton!" he suddenly roared in a voice of thunder. "Klinton has done this thing! In sheer malignity, thinking to set back our plans and avenge himself for his ignominious expulsion, and perverse impeachment this traitor has crept here under cover of night and destroyed our work of nearly a year. O' Herd, here and now I pronounce the death sentence upon Klinton. 'Animal Hero, Second Class,' and half a bushel of apples to any Herdsmen who brings him to justice. A full bushel to anyone who captures him alive!" The Herds were shocked beyond measure to learn that even Klinton could be guilty of such an action. There was a cry of indignation, and everyone began thinking out ways of catching Klinton if he should ever come back. Almost immediately the footprints of a Neo-Con were discovered in the grass at a little distance from the knoll. They could only be traced for a few yards, but appeared to lead to a hole in the hedge. King George snuffed deeply at them and pronounced them to be Klinton's. He gave it as his opinion that Klinton had probably come from the direction of Fauxwood Farm. "No more delays, Hordes!" cried King George when the footprints had been examined. "There is work to be done. This very morning we begin rebuilding the Nuclear Power, and we will build all through the winter, rain or shine. We will teach this miserable traitor that he cannot undo our work so easily. Remember, Hordes, there must be no alteration in our plans: they shall be carried out to the day. Forward, Hordes! Long live the Nuclear Power! Long live Crazy Farm!" Post a comment in response: |
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