 |
|||||||||||||
 |
|
 |
|||||||||||
 |
 |
||||||||||||
[[An Obvious Ripoff of Orwell]] Chapter 1 ~ The Crazy Farm ~ rehashed by -Colon P. Owell Lord RottenChild, of the Whoremore Farm, had locked the cackling hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Queen Rottenchild was already snoring. As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and a fluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the day that old Major Con, the prize Blue-Blooded boar, had had a strange dream on the previous night and wished to communicate it to the rest of the "Herd". It had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Lord Rottenchild was safely passed out. Old Major Con (so he was always called, though the name under which he had been exhibited was House of Duopoly ) was so highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour's sleep in order to hear what he had to say. At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major Con was already ensconced on his bed of straw, under a lantern which hung from a beam. He was twelve years old and had lately grown rather stout, but he was still a majestic-looking Pig with a wise and benevolent appearance in spite of the fact that his tushes had never been cut. Major Con Did not cotton to the name "PIG" and preffered Neo-Con, or Just "Con". Many of the 'Herd' However, just called the pigs 'Neo-Cons'. and the Herd just used Major Con for the old boar. Before long the other Herd members began to arrive and make themselves comfortable after their different fashions. First came the three Rovers', Kondie, Negropunty, and Rummy, and the Neo-Cons, who settled down in the straw immediately in front of the platform. The hens perched themselves on the window-sills, the Pigeons fluttered up to the rafters, the media whore sheep and cows lay down behind the Neo-Cons and began to chew the cud. The two cart-horses, Prole and Cloture, came in together, walking very slowly and setting down their vast hairy hoofs with great care lest there should be some small animal concealed in the straw. Cloture was a stout motherly wench approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal. Prole was an enormous beast, nearly eighteen hands high, and as strong as any two ordinary Proles put together. A white stripe down his nose gave him a somewhat stupid appearance, and in fact he was not of first-rate intelligence, but he was universally respected for his steadiness of character and tremendous powers of work. After the horses came Muriel, the white goat, and Kennyday, the donkey. Kennyday was the oldest animal on the farm, and the worst tempered. He seldom talked, and when he did, it was usually to make some cynical remark-for instance, he would say that God had given him a tail to keep the flies off, but that he would sooner have had no tail and no flies. Alone among the Herd on the farm he never laughed. If asked why, he would say that he saw nothing to laugh at. Nevertheless, without openly admitting it, he was devoted to Prole; the two of them usually spent their Sundays together in the small paddock beyond the orchard, grazing side by side and never speaking. The two horses had just lain down when a brood of dumb ducklings, which had lost their mother, filed into the barn, cheeping feebly and wandering from side to side to find some place where they would not be trodden on. Cloture made a sort of wall round them with her great foreleg, and the dumb ducklings nestled down inside it and promptly fell asleep. At the last moment Ann Colter, the anti-intellectual Slut, skanky stained white mare who drew Lord Rottenchilds's trap, came whoring sleazily in, chewing at a lump of sugar. She took a place near the front and began flirting her white Mane, hoping to draw attention to the red ribbons it was plaited with. Last of all came the cat, who looked round, as usual, for the warmest place, and finally squeezed herself in between Prole and Cloture; there she made plans contentedly throughout Major Con's speech without listening to a word of what he was saying. All of the Herd were now present except Lybby, the tame raven, who slept on a perch behind the back door. When Major Con saw that they had all made themselves comfortable and were waiting attentively, he cleared his throat and began: "O' great Herd!, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had last night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something else to say first. I do not think, you the 'Herd', that I shall be with you for Many months longer, and before I die, I feel it my duty to pass on to you such wisdom as I have acquired. I have had a long life, I have had much time for thought as I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say that I understand the nature of life on this earth as well as any Herd member now living. It is about this that I wish to speak to you. "Now, Great Herd, what is the nature of this life of ours? Let us face it: our lives are miserable, laborious, and short. We are born into debt, we are given just so much fattening food as will keep the sweat rolling off of our backs, and those of us who are capable of it are forced to work to the very last spark, the last atom of our strength; and the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we are buried with hideous cruelty and speed. No Herd in the world knows the meaning of happiness or leisure after he is a 18yrs old. No Herd in the World is free. The life of an Herd member is misery and slavery, debit and credit, fears and tears: that is the plain truth. "But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this land of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those Herd who dwell upon it? No, O' Hordes, No! a Thousand Times No! The soil of Mother Earth -Gaia is fertile, its climate is grand, it is capable of affording food in abundance to an enormously greater number of Herds than now inhabit it. This single Farm of ours would support a dozen hard working horses like Prole here, twenty cows, the Pigeon propagandists, even the media whore sheep-and all of them living in a comfort and a dignity that are now almost beyond our imagining. Why then do we continue in this miserable condition? Because nearly the whole of the produce of our labour is stolen from us by Aristocratic Slugs the CEO's.. There, Herds, is the answer to all our problems. It is summed up in a single abbreviation -CEO. The CEO is the only real enemy we have. Remove CEO from the scene, and the root cause of hunger and overwork is abolished for ever. "CEO is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, but steals it to sell yet again, he does not lay eggs, but buys them cheaply and resells them, and eats them, he is much too fat and weak to pull the plough, he cannot even waddle in his drunken stupor fast enough to catch the ignorant meek weak Rabbits. Yet he is Lord of all the Herds. He sets them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum allowances that will prevent them from starving, and the rest he keeps for self serving needs, namely himself. Our labour tills the soil, our dung fertilises it, and yet there is not one of us that owns more than his bare skin. You cows that I see before me, how Many thousands of gallons of milk have you given during this last year? And what has happened to that milk which should have been breeding up sturdy foal? Every drop of it has gone down the throats of our enemies the CEO's. And you hens, how Many eggs have you laid in this last year, and how Many of those eggs ever hatched into chickens? The rest have all gone to market to bring in money for Lord Rottenchilds and his Kingly CEO's. And you, Cloture, where are those four foals you bore, who should have been the support and pleasure of your old age? Each was sold at 18 years of age-you will never see one of them again. In return for your four confinements and all your labour in the fields, what have you ever had except your bare wages and a barren stall? "And even the miserable lives we lead are not allowed to reach their natural span. For myself I do not grumble, for I am one of the lucky ones. I am 65 years old and have had over four adopted brats. Such is the natural life of a Neo-Con. But no Herd member escapes the cruel knife in the end. You young Neo-Con Porkers who are sitting in front of me, every one of you will scream your lives out at the block within a decade . To that horror we all must come-cows, Neo-Cons, cackling hens, media whore sheep, everyone. Even the Proles and the Rovers' have no better fate. You, Prole, the very day that those great muscles of yours lose their power, RottensChild will sell you to the knacker, who will cut your throat and boil you down for the FOX Nutwork hounds. As for the Rovers', when they grow fat old and bald, RottensChild ties a brick round their necks and drowns them in the nearest political cesspool. "Is it not crystal clear, then, Herd, that all the evils of this life of ours spring from the tyranny of inhuman CEO beings born of Lord RottensChild? Only get rid of CEO's, and the produce of our labour would be our own. A1most overnight we could become rich and free. What then must we do? Why, work night and day, body and soul, for the overthrow of the "Herd" race! That is my message to you, O' Herd! Revolution! I do not know when that Rebellion will come, it might be in a week or in a hundred years, but I know, as surely as I see this straw beneath my feet, that sooner or later justice will be done. Fix your eyes on that, O' Herd, throughout the short remainder of your lives! And above all, pass on this message of mine to those who come after you, so that future generations shall carry on the struggle until it is victorious. "And remember, O' Hordes, your resolution must never falter. No argument must lead you astray. Never listen when they tell you that CEO's and the 'Herd' have a common interest, that the prosperity of the one is the prosperity of the others. It is all lies. CEO serves the interests of no creature except himself. And among us Herd let there be perfect unity, perfect Hordeship in the struggle. All CEO are enemies. All Herd are Herd" At this moment there was a tremendous uproar. While Major Con was speaking four large dirty Rat Lobbyists had crept out of their holes and were sitting on their hindquarters, listening to him. The Rovers' had suddenly caught sight of them, and it was only by a swift dash for their holes that the dirty Rat Lobbyists saved their lives. Major Con raised his Cloven Hoof for silence. "Hordes," he said, "here is a point that must be settled. The wild creatures, such as dirty Rat Lobbyists and meek weak Rabbits-are they our friends or our enemies? Let us put it to the vote. I propose this question to the meeting: Are dirty Rat Lobbyists Herd members?" The vote was taken at once, and it was agreed by an overwhelming majority that dirty Rat Lobbyists were Hordes. There were only four dissentients, the three Rovers' and the lazy lying cat, who was afterwards discovered to have voted on both sides. Major Con continued: "I have little more to say. I merely repeat, remember always your duty of enmity towards CEO and all his ways. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. And remember also that in fighting against CEO, we must not come to resemble him. Even when you have conquered him, do not adopt his vices. No animal must ever live in a house, or sleep in a bed, or wear clothes, or drink alcohol, or smoke tobacco, or touch money, or engage in trade. All the habits of CEO are evil. And, above all, no animal must ever tyrannise over his own kind. Weak or strong, clever or simple, we are all brothers of the Herd. No brother of the Herd must ever kill any Brother of the Herd. All Herd are equal. "And now, Herd, I will tell you about my dream of last night. I cannot describe that dream to you. It was a dream of the earth as it will be when CEO has vanished. But it reminded me of something that I had long forgotten. Many years ago, when I was a little Neo-Con, my mother and the other sows used to sing an old song of which they knew only the tune and the first three words. I had known that tune in my infancy, but it had long since passed out of my mind. Last night, however, it came back to me in my dream. And what is more, the words of the song also came back-words, I am certain, which were sung by the Herd of long ago and have been lost to memory for generations. I will sing you that song now, Herds. I am old and my voice is hoarse, but when I have taught you the tune, you can sing it better for yourselves. It is called Beasts of Empire." Old Major Con cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his voice was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune, something between Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson. The words ran: Beasts of Empire, beasts of Herd, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken to my joyful Words Of the golden future time. Soon or late the day is coming, Tyrant CEO shall be o'erthrown, And the fruitful fields of Empire Shall be trod by the Beasts alone. Rings shall vanish from our noses, And the harness from our back, Bit and spur shall rust forever, Cruel whips no more shall crack. Riches more than mind can picture, Wheat and barley, oats and hay, Clover, beans, and Mangel-wurzels Shall be ours upon that day. Bright will shine the fields of Empire, Purer shall its waters be, Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes On the day that sets us free. For that day we all must labour, Though we die before it break; Cows and horses, geese and turkeys, All must toil for freedom's sake. Beasts of Empire, beasts of Herd, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken well and spread my Word Of the golden future time. The singing of this song threw the Herd into the wildest excitement. Almost before Major Con had reached the end, they had begun singing it for themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the tune and a few of the words, and as for the clever ones, such as the Neo-Cons and Rovers', they had the entire song by heart within a few minutes. And then, after a few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into Beasts of Empire in tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the Rovers' whined it, the media whore sheep bleated it, the horses whinnied it, the dumb ducks quacked it. They were so delighted with the song that they sang it right through five times in succession, and might have continued singing it all night if they had not been interrupted. Unfortunately, the uproar awoke Lord Rottenchilds, who sprang out of bed, making sure that there was a fox in the yard. He seized the gun which always stood in a corner of his bedroom, and let fly a charge of number 6 shot into the darkness. The pellets buried themselves in the wall of the barn and the meeting broke up hurriedly. Everyone fled to his own sleeping-place. The birds jumped on to their perches, the Herd settled down in the straw, and the whole farm was asleep in a moment. Post a comment in response: |
| © 2002-2008. Blurty Journal. All rights reserved. |