 |
|||||||||||||
 |
|
 |
|||||||||||
 |
 |
||||||||||||
[[An Obvious Ripoff of Orwell]] Chapter 4 ~ The Crazy Farm~ BY THE late summer the news of what had happened on Crazy Farm had spread across half the county. Every day Klinton and King George sent out flights of propagandist pigeons whose instructions were to mingle with the Herds on neighbouring farms, tell them the story of the Rebellion, and teach them the tune of Beasts of Empire. Most of this time Lord Rottenchild had spent sitting in the taproom, drowning his sorrow at the Red Lion at Willingdon, complaining to anyone who would listen of the monstrous injustice he had suffered in being turned out of his property by a pack of good-for-nothing beasts calling themselves the 'Herd'. The other farmers sympathised in principle, laughed behind Rottenchild's back, so they did not at first give him much help. At heart, each of them was secretly wondering whether he could not somehow turn Rottenchild's misfortune to his own advantage. It was lucky that the owners of the two farms which adjoined Crazy Farm were on permanently bad terms. One of them, which was named FAUXwood, was a large, neglected, old-fashioned farm, much overgrown by woodland, with all its pastures worn out and its hedges in a disgraceful condition. Its owner, Mr. Filthington, was an easy-going gentle CEO whore man who spent most of his time in fishing or hunting according to the season. The other farm, which was called Stenchfield, was smaller and better kept. Its owner was a Mr. Frederick, a tough, shrewd CEO whore, perpetually involved in lawsuits and with a name for driving hard bargains. These two disliked each other so much that it was difficult for them to come to any agreement, even in defence of their own interests. Nevertheless, they were both thoroughly frightened by the revolution on Crazy Farm, and very anxious to prevent their own Herds from learning too much about it. At first they pretended to scorn the idea of Herds Managing a farm for themselves it was preposterous. The whole thing would be over in a fortnight, they said. They put it about that the Herds on the Whoremore Farm (they insisted on calling it the Whoremore Farm; they would not tolerate the name "Crazy Farm") were perpetually fighting among themselves and were also rapidly starving to death. When time passed and the Herds had evidently not starved to death, Frederick and Filthington changed their tune and began to talk of the terrible wickedness that now flourished on Crazy Farm. It was given out that the Herds there practised cannibalism, tortured one another with red-hot horseshoes, and had their females in common. This was what came of rebelling against the laws of Nature, Frederick and Filthington said. However, these stories were never fully believed. Rumours of a wonderful farm, where the Inhuman CEO being and their accomplice whore men had been turned out and the Herds Managed their own affairs, continued to circulate in vague and distorted forms, and throughout that year a wave of rebelliousness ran through the countryside. Bulls which had always been tractable suddenly turned savage, media whore sheep broke down hedges and devoured the clover, cows kicked the pail over, hunters refused their fences and shot their riders on to the other side. Above all, the tune and even the words of Beasts of Empire were known everywhere. It had spread with astonishing speed. The Inhuman CEO whore men could not contain their rage when they heard this song, though they pretended to think it merely ridiculous Herd rhetoric. They could not understand, they said, how even Herdsmen could bring themselves to sing such contemptible rubbish. Any Herd caught singing it was given a flogging on the spot. And yet the song was irrepressible. The blackbirds whistled it in the hedges, the propanda pigeons cooed it in the elms, it got into the din of the smithies and the tune of the church bells. And when the Inhuman CEO whore men listened to it, they secretly trembled, hearing in it a prophecy of their future doom. Early in October, when the corn was cut and stacked and some of it was already threshed, a flight of Pigeons came whirling through the air and alighted in the yard of Crazy Farm in the wildest excitement. RottenChild and all his men, with half a dozen others from Fauxwood and Stenchfield, had entered the five-barred gate and were coming up the cart-track that led to the farm. They were all carrying sticks, except Rottenchild, who was marching ahead with a gun in his hands. Obviously they were going to attempt the recapture of the farm. This had long been expected, and all preparations had been made. Klinton, who had studied an old book of Julius Caesar's campaigns which he had found in some whorehouse, was in charge of the defensive operations. He gave his orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes every Herdsman was at his post. As the Inhuman CEO whore men approached the farm buildings, Klinton launched his first attack. All the Pigeons, to the number of thirty-five, flew to and fro over the whore men's heads and splatted upon them from mid-air; and while the men were dealing with this, the geese, who had been hiding behind the hedge, rushed out and pecked viciously at their ankles. This however, this was only a light skirmishing Manoeuvre, intended to create a little disorder, and the whore men easily drove the geese off with their sticks. Klinton now launched his second line of attack. Muriel, Kennyday, and all the media whore sheep, with Klinton at the head of them, rushed forward and prodded and butted the men from every side, while Kennyday turned around and lashed at them with his small hoofs. But once again the men, with their sticks and their hobnailed boots, were too strong for them; and suddenly, at a squeal from Klinton, which was the signal for retreat, all the Herds turned and fled through the gateway into the yard. The whore men gave a shout of triumph. They saw, as they imagined, their enemies in flight, and they rushed after them in disorder. This was just what Klinton had intended. As soon as they were well inside the yard, the three horses, the three cows, and the rest of the Neo-Cons, who had been lying in ambush in the cowshed, suddenly emerged in their rear, cutting them off. Klinton now gave the signal for the charge. He himself dashed straight for Rottenchild. Rottenchild saw him coming, raised his gun and fired. The pellets scored bloody streaks along Klinton's back, and a media whore sheep dropped dead. Without halting for an instant, Klinton flung his fifteen stone against Rottenchild's legs. RottenChild was hurled into a pile of cowdung and his gun flew out of his hands. But the most terrifying spectacle of all was Prole, rearing up on his hind legs and striking out with his great iron-shod hoofs like a stallion. His very first blow took a stable-whore lad from Fauxwood on the skull and stretched him lifeless in the mud. At the sight, several men dropped their sticks and tried to run. Panic overtook them, and the next moment all the Herds together were chasing them round and round the yard. They were gored, kicked, bitten, trampled on. There was not an Herd on the farm that did not take vengeance on them after his own fashion. Even the cat suddenly leapt off a roof onto a whore mans shoulders and sank her claws in his neck, at which he yelled horribly. At a moment when the opening was clear, the men were glad enough to rush out of the yard and make a bolt for the main road. And so within five minutes of their invasion they were in ignominious retreat by the same way as they had come, with a flock of geese hissing after them and pecking at their calves all the way. All the men were gone except one. Back in the yard Prole was pawing with his hoof at the stable-lad who lay face down in the mud, trying to turn him over. The boy did not stir. "He is dead," said Prole sorrowfully. "I had no intention of doing that. I forgot that I was wearing iron shoes. Who will believe that I did not do this on purpose?" "No sentimentality, Herdsmen!" cried Klinton from whose wounds the blood was still dripping. "War is war. The only good inhuman CEO being being is a dead one." "I have no wish to take life, not even inhuman CEO being life," repeated Prole, and his eyes were full of tears. "Where is That Slut Ann Colter?" exclaimed somebody. That Slut Ann Colter in fact was missing. For a moment there was great alarm; it was hoped that the whore men might have carried the useless slut off with them. In the end, however, she was found hiding sleezing around her stall with her head buried among the hay in the Manger. And when the others came back from looking for her, it was to find that the whore man, who in fact was only stunned, had already recovered and made off. The Herds had now reassembled in the wildest excitement, each recounting his own exploits in the battle at the top of his voice. An impromptu celebration of the victory was held immediately. The flag was run up and Beasts of Empire was sung a number of times, then the media whore sheep who had been killed was given a solemn funeral, a hawthorn bush being planted on her grave. At the graveside Klinton made a little speech, emphasising the need for all Herds to be ready to die for Crazy Farm if need be. The Herds decided unanimously to create a military decoration, "Herd Hero, First Class," which was conferred there and then on Klinton and Prole. It consisted of a brass medal (they were really some old horse-brasses which had been found in the harness-room), to be worn on Sundays and holidays. There was also "Herd Hero, Second Class," which was conferred posthumously on the dead media whore sheep. There was much discussion as to what the battle should be called. In the end, it was named the Battle of the Bullcrap, since that was what the field which from the ambush had been sprung was full with. Lord Rottenchild's gun had been found lying in the mud, and it was known that there was a supply of cartridges in the farmhouse. It was decided to set the gun up at the foot of the Flagstaff, like a piece of artillery, and to fire it twice a year-once on October the twelfth, the anniversary of the Battle of the Bullcrap, and once on Midsummer Day, the anniversary of the Rebellion. Post a comment in response: |
| © 2002-2008. Blurty Journal. All rights reserved. |