neurotoxic
Ex-Bluelighter
My anarcho-buddi BullitNutz is a Great Writer, but he hasn't posted any of his stuff here on bluelight yet, so I guess I'll post it for him.
To Fell The Mighty
Every once in a relatively great while, or at least from the situation our short human timescale can percieve, a mightly empire collapses. Whether it is with a populist roar, a thermonuclear bang, or even a whimper of defeated withdrawal from colonial territories, the collapse is felt throughout the world, like the wrenching spasms of a grand mal seizure. Head to toe, the world trembles as the foundation which once supported it falls away, leaving a gossamer husk with no duty but to collapse inward as well. This has happened many times in history, and is about to happen again.
"Die for oil, suckers. Suckers. Suckers."
The speaker's vitriolic rant ended with those words. He said "suckers" as though he was addressing his target right before him. The words came through the amplifiers and out the speaker columns like the last few strokes of a hammer on a nail head. The audience, now released from their entrancement, burst into thunderous applause. Actually, it was more of an uproar than applause, more shouts, cheers, hoots, and hollers than clapping. Those idiots out there in the dunes are suckers, the Anarchist thought. Duped into death by those powerful scumbags in their plush offices, puffing away at cigars that cost more than any of us out here in the streets make in a damn week. Lured in by romantic propaganda, promises of college education, paid for by the government. Yeah, a hell of a lot of good college will do when you're dead in some foreign alley before you can buy a single beer at home. This anarchist was one of many, a legion of faceless, nameless ones, soldiers in their own right. Dressed in pitch black from top to bottom, they strike at the root of their sworn enemy. The government. They proclaimed their solidarity under a black flag, and answered to no one but themselves. Each one a unit, taking aim at the repugnant manifestations of power. Corporate-controlled media, chain stores, law enforcement.
How can they enforce laws that were never constitutional to begin with? Again, the old spectre of the Constitution rose in the Anarchist's mind. Why? If they knew what they were contributing to, they too, he dreamed, would be assembling among us, to claw at the stranglehold those fat cats have around our necks, squeezing more and more breath out of us every day, and what do they do? Arrest us, we who are trying to end the real crimes. He saw his comrades moving out of the pavilion, out into the streets. The streets, as they were now, were already packed. Tonight was the night they all came here to fight back. "Fight back." The Anarchist proclaimed. "Tonight we tell those cowards that the people are the boss, not the corporations. We, the people, each and every one of us, present or not, have our very lives at stake in this. If we do not return the power to the people, then we are nothing but corpses who have not yet been buried." The dozen or so around him cheered him on, but he only returned silence and a cold concentration on the mission: to disrupt.
The masses took to the streets, thousands upon thousands of people who had finally opened their eyes to what horrors awaited their apathy. Tonight their hearts beat in unison, each one choosing an advertisement, storefront, or squad car to "take care of." Armed with whatever materials were readily available, some had molotovs, others had two-by-fours, most had some form of paint. The single unspoken rule among them was to not attack other people. Every piece of advertising was to be destroyed. Every instrument of control, oppression, and mental slavery was to be adorned with the circled "A", the international symbol of Anarchy. These were the undeclared goals of those anarchists who had chosen to take this conquest beyond words. As the others looked on, the saboteurs fell upon the invisible shackles of capitalism surrounding them. They were not the least bit disgusted with those who did not participate in the vandalism, rather, tohse not engaged in the direct combat against the enslavement of the world's people on this small scale were either cheering for those who were, or filming the exploits of the rest.
The Anarchist's gaze fell upon a nearby squad car. The wheels of the agents of the greedy. It's getting a facelift, starting now. As he readied his sidearm, a 69 cent can of red spraypaint, he was startled by an explosion of glass from the windshield of the cruiser before him. He caught the silhouetted image of a brick falling against the dashboard as he quickly shielded his eyes reflexively. After feeling no shards of glass against his forearms, he went right back to work, laughing gleefully. Nothing like a little backup, he thought as he began to paint. He started with the A, and finished it off with a wide, sweeping circle around the letter. Stepping back to survey his masterpiece like some new-age Rembrandt, he sensed movement behind him. A type of movement that was not nice, the type of sensation you get when your body feels endangered and your mind hasn't caught up. He turned frantically to examine the source of the foreboding figures in the darkness as the blur of a night baton flew at his face. He raised his arms and covered his head, declaring at the top of his lungs that he was unarmed, but the hail of blows did not end. In fact, it intensified. As the assault rained down upon his upper torso, he counted three, maybe four attackers. A baton caught him across the back of the knees as another smashed upward into his stomach, lifting him back to his feet. As he doubled over in agony, a third caught him in the teeth, snaking between his arms and exploding white-hot daggers of pain through his body. His legs became insubstantial and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing through his shattered mouth, trying in vain to let them know that he was unarmed. Boots slammed into his abdomen, rolling him over like a sack of flour. Feeling his consciousness fleeing him, he tried to see a single number on the gleaming badges of his adversaries, only to see the darkness of black tape between him and the digits. As his gaze extended further into the crowds swarming around, he noticed an immobile apparition in the sea of legs. Following them upwards, his vision blurring and mingling with the darkness of unconsciousness, he saw a lens. A lens and a tiny blinking red light beside it. His last moments of lucidity were flooded with elation that somehow, his assailants were caught on tape. And then, his world was shrouded in an icy blackness.
To Fell The Mighty
Every once in a relatively great while, or at least from the situation our short human timescale can percieve, a mightly empire collapses. Whether it is with a populist roar, a thermonuclear bang, or even a whimper of defeated withdrawal from colonial territories, the collapse is felt throughout the world, like the wrenching spasms of a grand mal seizure. Head to toe, the world trembles as the foundation which once supported it falls away, leaving a gossamer husk with no duty but to collapse inward as well. This has happened many times in history, and is about to happen again.
"Die for oil, suckers. Suckers. Suckers."
The speaker's vitriolic rant ended with those words. He said "suckers" as though he was addressing his target right before him. The words came through the amplifiers and out the speaker columns like the last few strokes of a hammer on a nail head. The audience, now released from their entrancement, burst into thunderous applause. Actually, it was more of an uproar than applause, more shouts, cheers, hoots, and hollers than clapping. Those idiots out there in the dunes are suckers, the Anarchist thought. Duped into death by those powerful scumbags in their plush offices, puffing away at cigars that cost more than any of us out here in the streets make in a damn week. Lured in by romantic propaganda, promises of college education, paid for by the government. Yeah, a hell of a lot of good college will do when you're dead in some foreign alley before you can buy a single beer at home. This anarchist was one of many, a legion of faceless, nameless ones, soldiers in their own right. Dressed in pitch black from top to bottom, they strike at the root of their sworn enemy. The government. They proclaimed their solidarity under a black flag, and answered to no one but themselves. Each one a unit, taking aim at the repugnant manifestations of power. Corporate-controlled media, chain stores, law enforcement.
How can they enforce laws that were never constitutional to begin with? Again, the old spectre of the Constitution rose in the Anarchist's mind. Why? If they knew what they were contributing to, they too, he dreamed, would be assembling among us, to claw at the stranglehold those fat cats have around our necks, squeezing more and more breath out of us every day, and what do they do? Arrest us, we who are trying to end the real crimes. He saw his comrades moving out of the pavilion, out into the streets. The streets, as they were now, were already packed. Tonight was the night they all came here to fight back. "Fight back." The Anarchist proclaimed. "Tonight we tell those cowards that the people are the boss, not the corporations. We, the people, each and every one of us, present or not, have our very lives at stake in this. If we do not return the power to the people, then we are nothing but corpses who have not yet been buried." The dozen or so around him cheered him on, but he only returned silence and a cold concentration on the mission: to disrupt.
The masses took to the streets, thousands upon thousands of people who had finally opened their eyes to what horrors awaited their apathy. Tonight their hearts beat in unison, each one choosing an advertisement, storefront, or squad car to "take care of." Armed with whatever materials were readily available, some had molotovs, others had two-by-fours, most had some form of paint. The single unspoken rule among them was to not attack other people. Every piece of advertising was to be destroyed. Every instrument of control, oppression, and mental slavery was to be adorned with the circled "A", the international symbol of Anarchy. These were the undeclared goals of those anarchists who had chosen to take this conquest beyond words. As the others looked on, the saboteurs fell upon the invisible shackles of capitalism surrounding them. They were not the least bit disgusted with those who did not participate in the vandalism, rather, tohse not engaged in the direct combat against the enslavement of the world's people on this small scale were either cheering for those who were, or filming the exploits of the rest.
The Anarchist's gaze fell upon a nearby squad car. The wheels of the agents of the greedy. It's getting a facelift, starting now. As he readied his sidearm, a 69 cent can of red spraypaint, he was startled by an explosion of glass from the windshield of the cruiser before him. He caught the silhouetted image of a brick falling against the dashboard as he quickly shielded his eyes reflexively. After feeling no shards of glass against his forearms, he went right back to work, laughing gleefully. Nothing like a little backup, he thought as he began to paint. He started with the A, and finished it off with a wide, sweeping circle around the letter. Stepping back to survey his masterpiece like some new-age Rembrandt, he sensed movement behind him. A type of movement that was not nice, the type of sensation you get when your body feels endangered and your mind hasn't caught up. He turned frantically to examine the source of the foreboding figures in the darkness as the blur of a night baton flew at his face. He raised his arms and covered his head, declaring at the top of his lungs that he was unarmed, but the hail of blows did not end. In fact, it intensified. As the assault rained down upon his upper torso, he counted three, maybe four attackers. A baton caught him across the back of the knees as another smashed upward into his stomach, lifting him back to his feet. As he doubled over in agony, a third caught him in the teeth, snaking between his arms and exploding white-hot daggers of pain through his body. His legs became insubstantial and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing through his shattered mouth, trying in vain to let them know that he was unarmed. Boots slammed into his abdomen, rolling him over like a sack of flour. Feeling his consciousness fleeing him, he tried to see a single number on the gleaming badges of his adversaries, only to see the darkness of black tape between him and the digits. As his gaze extended further into the crowds swarming around, he noticed an immobile apparition in the sea of legs. Following them upwards, his vision blurring and mingling with the darkness of unconsciousness, he saw a lens. A lens and a tiny blinking red light beside it. His last moments of lucidity were flooded with elation that somehow, his assailants were caught on tape. And then, his world was shrouded in an icy blackness.
