“A Boost From The Future – A Time Travel Tale” (A Short Story)

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Tom Lister Is the Captain & Owner Of The 23rd Century Starship “Betelgeuse Mk 7”. He & His Crew Are On Their Latest Mission, Which In This Case Is Planet Earth, In The Distant Past. Tom Is Making His Initial In-Situ Report After Being Beamed Down To Earth From The Orbiting Spacecraft By The Ships Second In Command – Telly The Humanoid Pleiadian Life Form. Captain Tom Relies Heavily On Telly – For His Advanced Non-Human Analyical Abilities. Tom & The Crew Of Beteleuse Mk 7 Typical Mission Is To Interfere Constructively In The Histories Of Rogue Backward Civilisations. Are Kept In Check From Spiraling Out Of Control Due To their Emotionality & War-Like Dispositions. These Missions Utilise Time Travel To Moments Where The Planet Is In Crisis Or Critical Turning Points Which Could, Left Unchecked Threaten The Galactic Order Of Advanced Civilisations.. We Now Join Captain Tom Lister Of Betelgeuse Mk 7.

“This Is The Captains Log Of Tom Lister, Captain Of The Starship Betelgeuse Mk7. I Have…Landed… Far Back…Into Earths History… I Am Amongst This Small…… 12ft Square Room…It Seems Like Early-To-Mid 21St Century Earth …There Are Empty Beer Cans Littered On the Floor…The Striking Thing Is The Amount Of What Earth People Once Called “Books”. These Were The Devices Human’s Used To Disseminate Commentary On Their Social Condition, In One Way Or Another.

Tom Picked Up A Handfull Of Books On the Floor:

Plato’s Timaes

Henry Bukowski – Ham On Rye

Edward Gibbon – The Rise & Fall Of The Roman Empire

Stephen Hawking – A Brief History of Time

Thomas Kuhn – The Structure Of Scientific Revolutions

Kafka – A Collection of Short Stories

Tom thought to Himself: “Judging By These Books, & All The Others Strewn About – The Inhabitant of The Studio Flat Was Definitely A Independently Minded & Cerebral Character – Perhaps That’s His Problem”

” The Room Is Cluttered With Much More Strange Things, Other Than The Books. There Are These Things Called “Electric Guitars” Propped Against The Corners…There is A Tall Black Tower Emitting What Seems To Be Loud Cacophony Type Music…There Is An Unmade Bed, But It Looks Like It Was Slept In Recently…There Is A Shelf Full Of Small Plastic Containers Containing Disk Like Things….There Is Hieroglyphic Like Art On the Containers..& Writing On the Disks…There Is A Dank Musty Smell & Dust Flakes Dancing In the Sunlight…That Is Sliding Through A Crack In This Thing Covering A Window…..There Are Men’s Clothes Lying On the Ground…Many Trousers On The Floor That Almost Look As If Someone Has Beamed Out Of Them Instantly.”

Tom Now Engaged Telly, Who Was On The Ship Overhead And Awaiting Tom’s Communication.

” Telly….Do You Have A Reading On This Place From the Holo-History-Log Yet?”

Telly Advised Tom:

“Captain, I Have Searched The History Database Of Your Location…”It Seems You Have Landed In The Studio Apartment Of One Hank Schmidt In The Year 2034…He Was A Little Known And Aging ‘Neo-Beatnik’. Primarily He Was An Underground Writer Who Gained A Cult Following Among The Numerous Disaffected Youths & Also The Ranks of The ‘Older & Forgotten’…. His Work Was Always Fictionalised – But Contained Truthful Descriptions Of Earth’s Social, Political & Economic Landscape….This ‘Fictionalisation Of The Truth’ Was Also How He Avoided His Surveillance & Capture By Those In Various Levels Of The 21st Century Earth’s By Now Well Advanced Corrupted Authority …… In His Works, He Described The Fascist World Government & Its Efforts To Curtail Basic Freedoms…..His Work, Words & Wisdom Later Becoming Popular With The Rebel Movement That Attempted To Topple The Fascist World Govt…This Rebel Movement & Army Were Eventually Known As “The Return Battalion” – The Name Symbolising A Return To The Freedom That They Had Always Imagined Was Indeed Actually Possible….”

Telly Continued To Describe This Timeline & Betelgeuse’s Now Emerging Mission

“The “Return Battalion” Emerged As A Fighting Force Around The Year 2139, But Not Before the Devastation Of A Nuclear 3rd World War Had Already Broken Out, Devastated The Earth, & Set It Back Back Centuries…..The Rebels Of ‘The Return Battalion” Were Tough, But Were Fighting Over the Scraps Of A Burnt-Out World…. Captain…I Believe Our Mission is To Find Hank Schmidt & Give Him Vital Prior Information About Earth’s World Fascist Government’s Plans & Their Key Technology… Thus Aiding In Its Toppling By The Rebels, And In Doing So, Avoiding The Nuclear World War Altogether.

Captain Tom Replied.

“Thank You Telly, Your Analysis is Fantastic, How Certain Are You Of This”

“I Calculate The Odds At 99.784% Captain”.

“Thanks Telly, And I Agree – That’s IS Our Mission”.

It Was At That Point Tom Stepped Onto Some Dirty Underwear & Heard A Toilet Flushing, Followed By the Sound Of Weary Footsteps On A Tile Floor. While Standing On A Pair Of Hank’s Dirty Underwear, He Found It Hard to Believe He Was About To Meet The Spiritual Leader Of A The Return Rebellion, The Organization That Slowly Won Control Of The Post Earth WW3 Era & Had Sown the Seeds For Tom & The Betelgeuse’s Existence In the 23rd Century. Tom Made A Pact To Himself He’d Not Show Any Outwardly Signs Of Nervousnous.

Because The Ship’s Beaming Down Process Only Allowed Living Tissue To Be Beamed Without Accompanying Non-Living Items – Tom Was Standing Naked. He Quickly Grabbed An Old Coat & Pants From the Floor, & Hurriedly Put Them On. He Then Attempted To Muss His Far-Too-Short, ‘Short Back & Sides’ Hair Up.

Tom Looked Around For Something To Confirm That He Was Indeed In Hank Schmidt’s Apartment – He Saw A Bunch Of Opened Letters Pinned Top The Wall – All Publisher Replied Rejection Letters To A Writer Named Hank Schmidt. Tom Released A Sigh – The Beaming Process Had Worked Well – Sometimes Due To Quantum Fluctuations – It Didn’t And He’d Have To High Tail Out Of Wherever He Was.

Hank Thought Quickly – He’s Needed To Look Like A Fan Of Hanks – He Scanned The Bookshelves That Lined The Room. He Saw A Shelf With About Ten Books On It, All With Hank Smith Written On The Spines. He Grabbed One At Random – It Was A Book Of Hanks Sci-Fi Short Stories.

Hank Schmidt Finally Appeared From the Bathroom, He Saw Tom, He Was Startled, But Not Amazingly So. Given Hank Had A Cult Following, This Kind Of Thing Was Now Happening More & More.

It Used To Annoy Him, But He Realised That A Good Writer Can’t, Try As They May, Live In A Vacuum: Writers Inevitably Create ‘Committed Fans’ When They Successfully Create A Great Piece Of Writing. He Accepted That Brute Fact.

When Hank Saw Tom, He Assumed It Was Just Another Beatnik Who Liked His Philosophy & Was Appearing At His Door, Or Even In His Room. But He Was Slightly Suspicious, As He Sensed Tom Was Cleaner Cut Than His Usual Fan – After All Tom Had The Military Haircut Of Short Back & Sides & His Face Looked Different To Any Male Fan’s He’d Ever Seen – That Is, Well Shaved, Alert, And Focussed.

To Captain Tom, Hank Schmidt Looked Quite Dishevelled & Hungry, Was Bearded, And Tall With A Small But Discernable Aire Of Confidence. His Mind Was Now Being Well Jogged – He Now Remembered He Had Studied Hank In His ‘Earth History’ Class, At The Academy.

The Two Of Them Were Facing Off For A Few Too Many Seconds Without Words Spoken. Tom Snapped Out Of His Mini-Trance When He Saw The Unease In Hank’s Eyes, He Moved To Remedy It, To Allay His Suspicions. Thinking Quickly Tom Said:

“Hi Hank Sorry To Bother You, The Door Was Open….I’m A Big Fan, Can You Sign This Book?”.

Hank Showed Signs Of Relief.

“Sure – You Like Short Stories? Who Should I Make It Out To……Hey Is That My Jacket You’re Wearing??”

Tom Squirmed Just A Little.

“Er…Yes, Sorry I Was Cold…Hope You Don’t Mind – I’m From A Warm Climate”.

Hank Smiled, He Found The Off-Beat-ness Of It All Quite Charming & He Had A Heap Of Old Jackets Anyway. His Fans Had Sneaked A Lot Of His Clothes Over The Years.

Tom Smiled Confidently, He Knew He’d Be Able to Help Hank Schmidt’s & The Rebel’s Cause. All Going Well, This Mission Back Into Earths History Would Keep Most Of The Good Parts Of Hank’s Future Post WW3 Rebellion World, & Far Lessen The Massive Amounts Of Deaths, Damage & Destruction. But Tom Knew There Were No Guarantees When Engaged In Time Travel To Change The Past

Tom Then Had An Mini Stress Attack, His Thoughts Raced – Would, In Taking On This Mission They Destroy Their Own Future Existence? Would This Create A Paradox That Would Sabotage The Plan? Would Tom Find Himself Literally Fading Into Invisibility, & Re-emerging Into Another Life, Another Name, Another Job In Another Timeline?

Tom Calmed Himself – He Realized That With This Time Jump Being Only Two Hundred Odd Years The ‘Time Travell Divergence Effect’ Could Only Be Tiny – Perhaps 0.5% Tops. He Scolded Himself For Forgetting This And For Letting His Emotions Fly.

Hank Signed The Book.

“So Fella, What Was Your Favourite Story Of Mine From this Book?”

Tom Thought Quickly – Of Course He’s Never Read it Before, Having Covertly Just Picked It Up Off Hank’s Own Shelf.

“Ah…Yes, I Really Liked The Story About The Alien Base – It Really Made Me Think”.

Tom’s Strategy of Vagueness Had Worked Well.

“Oh Yeah, That Was One Of My Good Ones – After All, With The Moon Being Tidally Locked To The Earth It’s A Great Place To Observe Us Boobs On Earth Clandestinely – I Wouldn’t Be Surprised if that Story I Came Up With Is True After All…..Hey What Your Name Buddy”?

“Cap……Er Tom Lister…Sorry Hank, Cap Was My Old High-School Nickname…Make It Out to Tom”

Despite The Slight Slip Up of Almost Calling Himself ‘Captain Tom Lister’, He Was Happy In Not Hiding His Real Name. There Was No Need To Make Up A Fake Name, He Was A Temporary Visitor From The Far Distant Future – He Had No Current Earth Bound Life To Protect – & The Small Divergence Factor Was In His Favour Anyway -So Long As he Wasn’t Killed That Is.

Hank Signed The Inside Cover. It Read:

To Tom, Wishing You Happy Galactic Travails & The Successful Avoidance Of The Bad Guys

– Hank Schmidt September Twenty Two 2034

The Irony Of Hank’s Inscription Was Not Lost On Tom.

Hank Schmidt Pointed To The Shabby Threadbare But So Comfy Looking Seat In The Corner Of the Room & Said:

“Sit Down Tom & Tell Me About Yourself”.

Tom Duly Sat Down, But Did So As If He’d Never Seen A Old Comfy Recliner Before -Which Of Course, He Hadn’t.

“Oh, I’m Just From out Of Town & Heard About Your Ideas – I Just Thought I’d Grab Your Ear – So To Speak…And Your Signature Of Course”.

Tom Smiled Warmly, Non-Threateningly.

Taking The Opportunity To Set The Conversation – Hank Set The Opening Topic.

“Ok Well, Sure, I Got Some Ideas Let’s Start With What’s Wrong With This Place – This Madhouse On the Outskirts Of The Milky Way – Buckle Up Son Were in For A Long Night – But We Do Have Beer!”

Hank Cracked One Open For Himself & Threw One Across the Room To Tom. He Took A While to Open It But With the Low Lighting Hank Didn’t Notice.

“Oh, I Have All the Time In the World” Tom Said As He Sheepishly Tasted The Beer & Successfully Hid His Dissatisfaction.

Hank Sat Also In An Old Comfy Seat, Crossed Legged With Beer In Hand, Stroking His Beard & Holding His Beer Can Taking The Odd Big Slug As He Regaled his Thoughts.

“Ok, Well Tom, Let Me Think The Tipping Point Came In 1984, That’s When The Return Of Fascism Truly Begun In Earnest…We Thought We’d Beaten It For Good A Few Decades Earlier, But It Truth It Was Just Laying Dormant- Waiting To Strike Again!”

Hank Slugged Back the Last Dregs & Dropped His Beer Can On the Floor, Where It Clanked Next To The Thirty Odd Yesterdays Empty Cans. Hank’s Favourite Branded Beer Was Called “Lugenfield Ale”.

Hank Continued. His Monologue.

“You See Tom, The Big Change Became Noticeable In The 1980’s. There Was An Old WW2 Vet & B-Grade Actor Called Randy Rippenstein…..He Was Put Office By The Cartels…..He Would Be Their Pre-Approved Puppet….The Same As All the Other Leaders Of The Western Nations…Through The Cover Of the “Democratically Elected Puppets’ – The Bastards Would Systematically Attack the Bulk Of The Population – the Ave Joes Living Paycheck To Paycheck.

The Bastards Attacked Their Affordable Housing, Their Airy Workplaces, Their Mostly Un-technologically Surveilled Cities…Slowly by Way Of “A Thousand Cuts” They Created A Techno Fascist State – That is, 90% Of Todays World – There Are Precious Few Nooks & Crannys Of Freedom Left, Luckily I Am Good At Finding Them – Hence Why You Are Here With Me Having A Beer – Totally Unmolested.”

He Continued After Slugging Back Another Beer & Throwing The Last On The Ever Growing Pile.

Hank Continued With Tom Listening Politely & Intently, Taking The Odd Small Sip.

“This New Leadership Structure Was Created With The Aim Of Doing Away With The Meddlesome Home Owning, Car Driving, Middle Classes. You See Tom They Were Created In Their Hundreds of Millions After The Last Big War – When The Social Strategy Followed Was Socialism Mixed With Capitalism”.

Hank Took Another Slug, Wiped His Dripping Mouth & Continued.

“……After Getting Rid Of Temporary Post War Freedoms, They Rekindled The Traditional Lord-Serf-Slave System, With Obviously A Few Soulless Faux Elites As The Worlds Omnipotent Rulers. Their Goal Was To Create A Technocratic Surveillance State Which They Openly Called ‘Neo-Feudalism’. In Essence This Was Billions Now Captured In Slavery, With A Perhaps A Thousand Slave-Masters That Lived With Opulence, Freedom & Impunity.”

Tom Listened Intently & Pretended To Sip. Hank Again Finished The Last Can & Started Another, This Time Throwing It Behind His Head, And Thus Clanking On Top Of Another Empty. He continued His Thoughts.

“Above The Frontline Slave Masters, In Hierarchical Tiered Fashion, Would Be Regionalized & National Governer Kings, & Of Course A Supreme Ruler – And While Prima Facie, This Man Was An Earths Creation, This Ruler Became Dependant On An Artificially Intelligent Advisor. This Entity Was & Is Ruled In Fact By The Realms Of Supernatural Darkness, Not Being Of This Earth. They- The Faux Elite Slave Masters – Thought It Was A Computer Run By Intelligent Software -But That Was Just The Mask, The Robbery, Swindle – You See Tom Despite Their PHD’s & Masters Degrees – They Are Too Dumb To Know What These AI Things Are – They Are Pandora’s Box Unleashed.”

Hank Again Threw Away & Grabbed Another Beer, Exactly As Before. Tom Forced Himself A Slug, Which This Time Seem To Taste Better That The First Few, He Felt Strangely Warm. Hank Continued His Monologue.

“To Cut A Long Story Short Tom, These Guys Are Like The Old Fascists, Risen Again, Learning From Their Mistakes, A Millionfold Wiser To The Threats Against Them, Are Far Better Propagandists, Richer & A Billion Times More Ruthless – You See Tom, My Books & Short Stories Are Simply A Warning – I Am Just Trying To Use The Cover Of Fiction To Tell Everyone About It -I’m Trying To Break Through the Brainwashed Glazed Eyes, I’m Trying To Slowly De-Zombify A Few People Here & There. It’s Hard Tom, I’m Fighting Decades of Successful Programming – 90% Of People Are Like Docile Cows, When It Gets To 99%, I Think There Can Be No Kernal Of Critical Mass Left To Form The Rebellion We Need – Every Snowflake Needs Its Speck Of Dust”.

Hank Grabbed Another Beer, this Time Adjusting His Scarf & Glasses, Finger Combing His Shoulder Length Hair, And Pulling Up His Loose Beltless Trousers. He Looked Straight At Tom.

“So Tom, My Mysterious Out Of Towner, Book Lover With A Crew Cut, What Do You Think – Do You Agree With Me So Far? Or Do Think I’m A Crackpot?”

While Waiting For Tom’s Reply, Hank Then Reached Over To The Coffee Table To His Left, & Placed the Needle Down On Record Player, & The Classical Music Of Brahms Drifted To Their Ears. He Threw Hank A New Beer.

Tom Sat Back, Threw The Empty Beer Back Over His Head & Caught the Next Beer Thrown to Him, Cracked It Open & Slugged It Back Heartily, Mimicking Hank Perfectly.

“No, You’re Not Crazy Or A Crackpot – I Think Your Assessment & Portrayal Of Earth In This year Of 2034 is Accurate – That’s Why i Love Your Writing – But Excuse Me Before You Tell Me More, I Must Use The Bathroom, This Beer Is Bursting My Bladder!”.

Tom Got Up But While On His Way He Kicked A Random Book From The Boheme Detritus Laden Floor – It Moved Towards Hank Who Noticed It & A Quizzical Look Moved Over His Bearded Face – For He Didn’t Recognize That Book Cover At All -It Was As If It Had Been Planted There Secretly, Beamed Down You Might Say.

Hank Cracked Open Another Beer & Waited For Tom to Return From the Bathroom. He Waited Five, Ten & Twenty Minutes. He Downed One, Two Beers, Three Beers, & Listened To The Whole “Side B” Of The Record. Finally Running Out Of Patience, He Went To The Bathroom Door, He Knocked & Yelled Out.

“Yo Tom! You Givin’ Birth In There?…We Still have So Much to Discuss- And Drink!”

There Was No Answer.

He Rapped Louder.

Again, No Answer, No Noise.

“Hey Man, I’m Comin’ In to See If You’re Ok Man”.

Hank Opened The Door To The Open-Windowed Mouldy Old Bathroom, Tom Was Nowhere to Be Seen. But Hank Saw Tom’s Clothes Were On The Ground, As Well As The Book Tom Had Asked Him To Sign.

He Chuckled As He Thought To Himself Out Loud “Wow He…He….Climbed Out the Window…Oh Well….Man What A Square, He Couldn’t Handle My Simple Truths. But Why Did He Take Off His, I Mean My Clothes That He Was Wearing?”

Hank Went Back To His Beer Seat, Not Overly Perturbed At Tom’s Sudden Disappearance – He Enjoyed The Out-Of-The Ordinary-ness Of the Situation – And After All, He Could Use It As ‘Idea Fodder’ For The Next Short Story.

Hank Sat And Cracked Open Another Lugenfield, Then He Saw The Book That Tom Had Kicked. It Wasn’t One he’d Written Or Acquired. It Was A Thick Thousand Page White Covered Paperback With The Title In Thick Black Times Roman Font it Simply Read:

NERO’S NEW PLANSA New Rejigged Roman Empire To Rule 21st Century Earth

Hank Flicked Through It, He Soon Saw that It Was Essentially A Battleplan. It Had Future Dates, Maps, Chapters With the Following Titles: “Schematics Of The Invisible Thought Control Weapons”, “Mass Prison Containment”, “Microwave Based Disablement”, “Viruses Planted To Enable Rollout Of Human Brain Chip Technology”.

The Books Body Had Detailed Descriptions Of How To Win A New War Against The People. It Would Unfold Via A Neo Feudal Techno Fascist System. Instead Of Being Manned By Deeply Flawed Human Roman Soldiers , It Would Be Supercharged Via An Army Of Never-Tired, Super-Intelligent, Cheaply-Run, Artificial Intelligence Software Bots & Embodied Robots.

On Hand 24-7 the AI Tyranny System Would Advise, Punish, Report & Surveil. The Book Mentioned & Outlined What Seemed to Be The Secret Weapon Of It All – A Nuclear Powered Core Housing A 10 Million Point IQ Prime AI Advisor, That Was Hooked up To A Giant Series of Networked Underground Feeder Mainframes.

Thanks to Tom, Telly & The Crew Of Betelgeuse Mk 7, The Future Fascist Earth Battleplans & Tech Blueprints Had Fallen Into Enemy Hands – Hank’s. He Frantically Flipped Through The Pages For A Published In Date – He Found It. It Said Published In 2035 By Centurian Spear Press.

Hank’s Book-Holding Hands Trembled As the Realisation Set In. This Book Was From the Future! It Was The Real Deal.

Hank Then Turned To The Last Chapter – It Detailed The AI Computer Code That Would Make The Perfect Tyranny All Possible – It Was The Code That The Supreme AI Supercomputer Would Use – To Directly Create Plant Fascist Friendly ‘ThoughtWaves’ Into The Unwitting Pre-Microchipped Heads of The Masses.

Hanks’s Brain Was Being Blown, But he Was too Wise To Let It Rattle Him. He Knew This Was What He Had Been Waiting For – Without really knowing It. It Was The Gift To Allow A New Organised Rebellion to Form.

Hank Now Thought Strategy. He Could Re-Write The Book As A Rebels Handbook, In A Series Of Coded Short Sci-Fi Stories. With His Information They’d Be Able To Predict Expertly All the War Moves Of the Enemy & Destroy the AI Mega Beast Before It Was Built, Secured & Functional.

Even So, He Threw The Book Behind Him Like It Was Any Other Than His. It Landed With A Thick THUD. Hank Promised Himself He’d Start Work On Operational Plans Tomorrow. For Now He Wanted To Get Some Final Relaxation – After All Writers Are Creatures Of Habit. He’d Be A Busy Man For the Next Two Years At Least. He Was Resigned To his Fate & Duty To the Future.

His Near Future Was Now Crystallised To The Mammoth Task At Hand. To Begin The Writing Sessions To Create The Yet-Formed Rebellion’s First Volume Handbook -All Coded As Entertaining Short Stories. He Knew He Would Write The Words To Save Earth. Now He Would Grab The Last Chance To Relax Before Tomorrow.

Hank Put On Some Rachmaninov On the Record Player. He Reached Behind Himself & Cracked Open Another Lugenfield & Took A Full Can Emptying Slug. He Looked At The Can, It Looked Slightly Different. Then He Noticed What Was Different – The Writing Had Mysteriously Changed To “Lugendorf”. He Jumped Up Off His Chair – Staring At The Can, Then Fell To His Messy Floor & Grabbed Can After Can to Check The Labels – All Said “Lugendorf” Instead Of “Lugenfield”. He Knew Then That The World Had Changed A Little, He Also Knew This Had A Lot to Do With His Recently Disappearing Guest – Tom.

Meanwhile Tom Had Returned To The 23rd Century. He Was On the Bridge Of The Betelgeuse. These Were Always Stressful Moments – Where He Would Turn To Telly & Ask Him To Look At The Future History Log, So As To Confirm If Their Mission Was Successful Or A Failure.

Telly Went Into The Holo-History Log For Earth In the Year 2055 – By Then He Figured Hank’s Rebellion War Would Be Over, With the Winners Firmly Ensconced. He Put The Screen In Holographic Mode. He Zoomed Into Italy, Then The Vatican City – There Were No Buildings – It Was Now A Giant Park With Weeping Willow Trees, Mighty Oaks And A Huge Artificial Lake – There Were Tourists Walking Along the Paths Walking At Leisure. Now He Zoomed Into Washington DC, Capitol Hill. It Was Entirely Gone And In its Place Was A Giant Field, Full Of Poppys, Water Features & A Monument.

“Zoom In On That Monument Telly”, Said Captain Tom.

“Yes Captain”

The Hologram Showed The Statues In Great Detail. it Was Of A Tall Dishevelled Man With A Scarf, Tatty Coat, Wearing Glasses & Had Shoulder Length Hair. The Statue Was Holding An Open Book, Outstretched In His Hand. In The Other Hand He Clutched An Open Can Of Beer. At the Statues Feet There Were Many Empty Half Crumpled Empty Beer Cans.

Tom Sighed In Relief, As He Knew The Rebels Had Won. He Plopped Exhaustedly In His Bridge Command Chair & Looked Wearily At Telly, Who Had turned Off the Holographic Image.

“Where Too Next Telly?”

“Captain -Are you Slipping? Don’t you Remember? We Have 3 Weeks R & R In The Trappist Star System, On The Planet 1-E, Chosen For It’s Low Light, Water World-ness, Oxygenated Air & Semi Tropical Temperatures – It’s Only 41 Light Years From Earth, We Will Be There In 3 Warp-Drive-Hours .”

Tom Beamed A Giant Planetoid Sized Smile.

“Great Telly – So Long As Their No Early 21st Century, Machiavellian Earthlings I’m Happy. Put On Some Rachmaninov Will You – Oh & Materialise Me Some Of That ‘Lugenfield’ Beer Will You””

“That’s Right Captain Sir – The Planet Trappest 1-E of the Aquarius Constellation, Is Uninhabited For Another 5017.9 years…..And Your Lugendorf Beer, From The Last Mission is Materialising Now In Your Hand. Lugenfield Has Unfortunately Ceased To Have Ever Existed”

“Ok Telly, Good Work – I Only Hope It Tastes The Roughly Same As It Did In Hank Schmidt’s Dank Studio in 21st Century Earth.”

“Well, It Can’t Possibly Be That Different Sir – The Distortions In The Reality Field Displacement On Our Missions Are The Best Currently Possible”.

“Touche Telly, Touche”

The Beer Materialises & Captain Tom Takes A Slug, His Facial Expression Is One Of Brief Doubt & Then Pure Pleasure – Marked by An Ear To Ear Smile. He Chugs the Rest, Then Throws the Empty Can Behind Him & Over His Head. The Can Hits The Floor, & The Ships Waste Removal System Slowly Dematerialises It.

Tom Had One More Request For the Journey.

“Telly, Why Don’t You Materialise Me One Of Hanks Books, Let’s Start With That One He Signed For Me In His Apartment – I Really Should Read That”

“Yes Captain”.

The Book Materialised In Tom’s Hands, He Opened It & Started Reading.

THE END

“Congratulations I’ve Been Admitted to the Bar” (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Today I Was Admitted To The Bar

This Was A Great Achievement

That I Had Put So Much Effort Into

What’s That?

Oh My Fine Rare As Hen’s Teeth Reader

You Think I Become A Lawyer?

You – If You Are The Stock Standard “Nouveau Riche” Person

Think I Am Now A “Success”

Because I’m A “Lawyer”?

And My Future Is One Of

Dinner Parties Where Everyone Says The Exact Same Thing?

A Nice House On The Hill?

A Sham Marriage?

With A Wife That Hates Me?

All The Anti-Depressant’s The Doc Can Shambolically Dispense?

A Flash Car?

A Mutual Fund Portfolio Managed By A Glorified Scammer?

Called A “Financial Planner” Or “Sharebroker”?

With 2.3 Kids at “Private School” & A Dog & an Audi Or BMW Or A Mercedes??

Oh No No No No!

That Will Not Do!

You Couldn’t Be More Mistaken!

I Would Never Involve Myself With Such A Unbridled Shit-Show!

To Put It Quite Plainly

Let Me Clarify:

I said I was “Admitted To The Bar”

This is slightly wrong

I Was “Re-admitted To The Bar”

Not The Lawyer Regulatory Kind But The Selling Alcohol Kind.

I Had Been Barred From The Dive Bar

For Loutish Behaviour

And Having Served My Week On the Side

Barman Sammy Simmons Called Me And Said

“Congratulations Barney – You Have Been Re-admitted To The Bar”

I Was Free To Again Drink With The Schmoes

And Tell Wild Untrue Stories Of My Many Glories

My Car Sucks, It Backfires, Breaks Down & Is Rusty

I Had A Wife But She Was Toothless & She Split

Across Many, Many State Lines,

Far Too Numerous To Count.

I Have 5.2 Kids Out There, To 3.7 One Night Stands

I Live in A Decrepit Boarding House,

Which Will One Day Get Flooded/Burnt Down/Red Stickered,

As It Is Not Situated On A Hill In Those “Leafy Green Suburbs”.

Society Calls Me A “Bum” A “Loser” A “Drunk” Or A “Fool”

But No Matter How Bad My Life Seems To Be

I’d Never Be Stupid Enough To Want To

“Admitted To The Bar”

Of The Lawyerly False Glory Kind.

How Can Anyone Do That?

I Could Never Live In That Charade,

For Even One Month,

Let Alone The 2 to 5 Decades

That Those Brainwashed Faux Elite Subject Themselves To.

The Stress Of Keeping Up Those Appearances,

I Something I Wouldn’t Wish on My Worse Enemy.

There Are Probably Some Good Lawyers Out There,

But I Haven’t Met One In Fifty Odd Years

& Yes You Are Correct – Those Years Have Indeed Been “Odd”

The “Good Lawyers” – If Indeed they Exist AT ALL

Must Be Very Good At Hiding.

I’ll Stay A “Working Class Hero”,

Even If I Am A Wannabe One,

& Pull Up My Bar Stool,

& Tell Of The Glory Days

To The Gang.

We Will Belch, Fart & Yell Loudly,

But Not Neccesarily In That Order.

At Least We Know We Are “Losers”

But At Least We Produce Real Stuff

Like Waratahs, Wire, Dug Ditches & Customized Trucks,

Our Habitat Is In Shipyards, Sheds & The Outdoors

We Make Real Goods In What Is Called The “Real Economy”

Our Goods Are Essential, Non-Speculative, Tangible, Non Parasitic.

Stuff that Builds Great Stable & Flourishing Economies & Societies.

So – We Are Not “Losers” At All

Unlike Those Snooty Lawyers

Who Only Create Limitless Factory Issue Units Of Misery

& Spread It Around The World (Like A Virus).

Yes, We Can Be Bad – But We Ain’t Ever THAT BAD.

And When World War Three Finally Breaks

Our Younger Ones Will Win It – Like Always.

Ok I’m Now Off To Be “Re-Admitted To the Bar”

Thank you For Your Time

After All -You Could Have Been Doing So Many Other Things

Such As Drinking At A Bar Or Ringing A Divorce Lawyer

Or Something Else In-Between Those Two Spectrums

“The Drunken Everyman’s Beer Hall Putsch”(A Poem)

Sargeant Schwearing Wore A Big Moustache

And Wore It With Panache

But Alas this Man Was Too Bitter

And Rumoured a Distant Cousin Of Hitler!

He Would Come To My Bar

In A Volkswagon Beetle

He Would Pull Up A Pew

And a Regular Diatribe He Would Spew

I Will Now Recount The Story

In All Of Its Glory

Sargeant Schwaring Why Are You Swearing?

Is It Your Crap Job Or Nagging Wife

Or Too Tight Underwear You’re Wearing?

Or Is It The Weather, Or That Wild Dog

That On Your Paper-Round is Appearing?

Is It The Snob Next Door

Who Laughs Coz You’re Poor

Yet Cannot Afford To Fix His Own Door?

Is It The Politician Who Taxes You Silly

And Gives It To the Truely Rich

Or Is It Your Supervisor Who Of You Loves To Snitch?

Sargeant Scwearing Your Life’s A Hard One

With Virtually No Fun

Your Destiny’s Full Of Road-Blocks

And You Chew On Last Weeks Hog Hocks

You Live In Men’s Hostel Accommodation

With The Spirits Of Damnation

But Surely Soon Your Luck Will Turn

And Of Those Starry Nights You Yearn

You Will Ride Into the Sun

While Holding a Sugary Bun

Your Wife Will No Longer Nagg

Having been “Surgically Reverse De-Hagged”

The Money Will Flow

You’ll Be Revered For Things You Don’t Know

Men Will March In Your Honour

Unwitting That You’ve Made Them All A Gone-er

Oh My!, Sargeant Schwearing!, The Silver Lining Is Here!

So Now Celebrate It, & Swig Your German Beer!

That’s It Swig the Stein Down

All Over Your Army Fatigue Gown!

The Govt Spy Was Watching & Waiting

While You Were Gesticulating

He Pounced, You Flounced & He Said

“You’ve Had Too Much Drink

You’re Arrested, Arrested Big!

I’m Throwing You In The Clink!”

And now Your Oasis Has Turned to Dust

You Snatched Defeat From Certain Victory

Hmmm….It Kinda Of Reminds Me Of Distant History

Of This “Unfair Punishment”, You’ve Turned Three Shades Of Blue

And Now You Rot In Prison & Do Angrily Stew

Sargeant Schwearing I Can Only Assume

Is This Belated Payback For World War Two?

What’s That Sargeant? I Stabbed You In The Sack?

By Serving That Bavarian Beer You Happily Through Back?

Oh Schwearing, Of You, I Am Not A Believer

I Merely Pull Beers At The ‘Bertrunkener Biber’ – The Drunken Beaver

Oh Schwearing – My Dear Fellow

I’ll Ignore Your Shameful Bellow

Your Letters Get No Better

Of Prison Shackles Your Words Unfetter

But Sargeant Schwearing – You Lost Fair & Square

You Wanted The Beer – That Tasty Brew

Now I Suggest You Go Fester & Plan

The Outbreak Of World War Three,

My Little Man.

But I admit – You Do Entertain Us Very Mutch

In Your Nightly Performance Of Verbal Slush

You Might Even Call It

“The Drunken Everyman’s Beer Hall Putsch”.

“The Lucid Dream of Marcel Smithski – (Just Another Poor ‘Walter Mitty Of The South Seas’) (A Short Story/Ep 46 Podcast)

By Martin Anton Smith ( Listen to audio! Click here > https://spotifyanchor-web.app.link/e/omQpHtnaJub )

Marcel Smithski age 29 was definitely a Walter Mitty type character. He was a ‘History buff’, practically spending half his life bumming around musty old urban bookshops hidden down the numerous alleyways of his hometown of Melbourne Australia. He loved the obligatory parts of second-hand book store culture: the smell of the musty books, the nerdy bespectacled & rake thin staff always reading at the cashier desk. He loved the thrill of the chase, of finding that hidden gem such as Steven J Gould, Christopher Hitchens, Bukowski, Orwell, Hawking or Bertrand Russell or any number of the numerous brilliant minds that lined those dusty tall shelves.

After a typical book hunting session, he retired to his bohemian digs in St Kilda. He lived in a weird boarding house built in Edwardian times; it was at base beautiful property but like them all – it was now simply a faded memory of its former self. He continued the second half of his creature of habit ritual -shutting himself away in his room, lying on his bed and beginning a 7-hr read-a-thon. He was perusing his latest great find called “The Great Depression: A Diary by Benjamin Roth – a blow by blow account of the great depression years from the viewpoint of a professional man.

Not long into the session his mind began to think of the 1930’s – and this triggered his Walter Mitty dreaming. He was dreaming again of being the world’s only ever successfully ‘Benevolent Dictator’. Priorly of course, he had read about the 1930’s era of terribly nasty despots – with of course Hitler, Mussolini Stalin, & Mao Tse Tung being the most famous warlords.

Smithski started to think of the whole ‘1920’s -1940s rise of the Dictators epoch’ and why it had happened & what went wrong. Smithski thought to himself, as if talking to another deadbeat intellectual in one of the many St Kilda cafe’s along Acland or Fitzroy St.

“Their main problem was they forgot their roots – that of creating a better life for the working classes and the poor. All of them had at the start had the kernel of a better way for the downtrodden, the result being their emancipation from systemic bourgeois exploitation. But They all became corrupted with general adulation & fame, the company & adoration of the well-heeled aristocracy, personal opulence via casual access to other people’s money”.

In theory, Smithski knew that it wasn’t the fact that they were Dictators that made them all bad – it was that they had allowed themselves to be corrupted. This massive flaw – corruption – was the key tendency of centralised planning or leadership – & the core reason Dictators destroy their countries from within & if given the chance – everyone else’s.

Smithski, after much pondering had realised that if a single person – a ‘Dictator’ – could make the best decisions at the time, time after time & year after year – this would actually be the best form of Government. Logically we live in a world of decisions, often these are trade-offs & there is an ideal trade-off between two or more competing interests.

Often decisions are hard as they require difficult to collect & analyse data; decisions are hard because of bureaucracy, limited access to technology, lack of funds, political adversaries that block good ideas, an uneducated voting public etc etc. If your “Perfect Dictator” was multi skilled, a genius, hugely life experienced, technically proficient, persuasive, a great organiser, morally robust, healthy & confidant – then it would be best if he or she made all the hard decisions with no red tape or unnecessary voting theatrics. Smithski reasoned that one day the gem that was the ‘perfect singular leader’ would eventually happen – simply by mathematical chance coupled with the unfurling of thousands of years of Human history.

Smithski was lying on his messy bed, eyes glazed staring at the cobwebbed ceiling & dreaming of being that perfect Dictator that would indeed save the world. He imagined being the young proto benevolent Dictator who was just beginning to be noticed by the world.

Now deeply ensconced in the dreamtime he imagines penning & then delivering a perfectly imperfect speech to the world’s population. The topic? – it was about the most pressing matter of the current era – the War in Europe that had recently sparked when Russia Invaded the Ukraine. His speech in front of all the worlds ‘fake dignitaries’ & it’s billions of couch-sitting masses would be beamed to an Internet & TV audience of at least 4 billion. Smithski imagined himself making the speech from some Globalist thinktank conference podium that he’d somehow sneaked himself into through some shrewed underhand sleight of hand.

“Hello there fake dignitaries! You are the scum of the earth – and you know it. You have no values and no interests in making life better for your constituents. No, you have long since sold your souls to the “fake elites” who are much richer than you, have much higher status than you. You see that is the problem – you rats have all got into the Politician/Ceo/Executive game not to help your fellow man – you have got into the game to feather your own nest & to try to curry favour with those rich narcissists who actually want chaos for the 99% of the population.

These are the people who want to ensure slavery not only continues to exist – but they want to see it thrive. You see these devil inspired pond scum love exclusivity – they need to reject others. in this rejection they feel good – for they feel superior. You false elite have gathered here not to “save the world” as is in the blurbs of your press releases -you are here to reject your fellow man & to party with your fellow fallen angels.

You hate the average joe & jane. You have decided to make them as stupid as possible. If they are stupid slaves, they will never realise they are slaves thus never revolt. You aim is to destroy the truth. To do this your population my not want to read past History. To do this you have invented the mass internet service – which you initially allowed to be free and uncensored. This was the honey to catch the flies. Within a decade half the world was online. then you started to censor it – you started to mess with algorithms. These algorithms loaded the dice towards traditional players and away from anything new. Away from anyone that wanted freedom from your tyranny. You gave 3 men total governorship & control & censorship of the worldwide internet communications!”

Smithski took a breath – to assess the drawn faces in the crowd. There was the contorted masculine face of Ursela Van Der Lube – she had a massive upside-down frown. Her wrinkles were as deep as the Grand Canyon. Her eyes were like pinholes. Her hair was like a butch lesbian’s from 1989. She was the President of the EU – she was promoted by the American sector of the dark side – for her meekness and spinelessness. She was a German and she had allowed Germany to cede her sovereignty to the American shadowy faces that told her what to do. She allowed people to micro manage her.

There was messy blonde-haired & overweight Norris Nonsent – the current UK Prime minister. Nonsent was best described as a middle aged ‘Ancient Greek Parable’ quoting, over entitled boarding-schooler. Yes, this fat little piggy had a rode his silver tongue into 10 Downing Street, on the back of the orchestrated wave of Nationalism that was the fake news of the UK leaving the EU economic market. Of course, this “Public Vote for the Future Direction of the UK” was far from an organic popular initiative – it was all centrally planned by the Shadowers.

The Shadower’s had noticed that the public’s anger levels were reaching a dangerous crescendo, and could slip over from ‘sporadic anarchy’ – which they liked – into ‘general anarchy’ – which they didn’t want yet. To mitigate this they created a diversion – a ‘political mirage’ if you will. They fashioned a popular movement called “Next-Fit” – which was in actual fact just a retention of the ‘status quo’. The working man, woman & child would still be eating shite sandwiches & there would be no “Economic Divorce With The EU’ at all.

The theory behind the “Next-Fit” plan was that the potentially revolutionary, working-class & poor half of the public could be fooled into transferring their downtrodden anarchic energies into the non-violent chatter of “Fighting To Save Britain” & nationalistic proclamations of “I’m Voting for NextFit”.

This stealing & reworking of the working classes revolutionary mojo culminated in a “Pro or Anti NextFit” referendum vote. This would of course result in a pre-determined outcome – Yes Vote for NextFit, and the resignation of the current “anti NextFit” Pm. He would be replaced by the supposed people’s man & “Pro NextFit” Puppet PM Norris Nonsent. The incumbent PM would be the fall guy.

If all went right with the plan – which it did- the people would feel like they had triggered a mini ‘Peoples Revolution’, bask in their success, and thus a return to being easily controlled docile sheep. Mission accomplished.

There was the New Zealand Pm Jackie Aldren – she was relatively young at 41 and was handed the leadership because she was a woke meek careerist and an easily influenced nut job. Her prime asset to the shadow people was she adored celebrity & status. The more she had the more she could love herself. The more vacuous & famous people she could take selfies, the happier she was. She was rake thin and had 5 years into her Prime-Ministership started to look grey gaunt and cadaverous. She like the typical Shadow employee had always been a Public Servant – i.e. she had never been in an environment where ridiculous ideas naturally died off. The ‘Shadowers’, as he had dubbed them, never hired Politicians that had been independent & successful businessmen. They needed clueless morons who would shovel as much of their shit into the mouths of the captive poverty stricken, who were now as designed – a very mentally ill & downtrodden populace.

There was Andrew Laconizie – the Australian PM. He was of course ‘Just Another Wokester Premier’. But his situation was sadder than Jackie Aldren’s. He had been the son of a battler – a single mother on welfare. He had the chance as and MP and then as PM to try to make people like him have better lives. Laconizie had until age thirty, when he became a MP, lived a ‘tough life’ marked by poverty & privation. But because he chose politics instead of private industry – the die was cast. He wouldn’t be helping anyone. He had ‘put his hat’ into a game whereby you had to sell out any community values to progress upwards. In this rotten game called ‘Politics’ they had a strict rule: If you had been from a poor upbringing – they would only present the ‘ladder of opportunity’ if you agreed to pull the ladder up on the public once you yourself had climbed it. Andrew Laconzie had long since done his ‘devil’s deal’ & he signed his soul away on that shadowy dotted line.

There was French Premier Manuel Slamacaroon. This guy had a mummy complex. When he was 5 years old, he had become infatuated with his 29-year-old teacher. He told her he would marry her – and 30 years later he did just that. When he married her at age 35, she was one year away from claiming superannuation. T

he ‘Shadowers’ loved a freak like Slamacaroon. This guy was so odd he had no idea about the average ‘creme bun loving’ Frenchman that read and talked in the cafes. He had like all the numbskulls presided over a deteriorating society where his people lost wages, became mentally sick and committed suicide in record numbers. He had allowed France to lose sovereignty just like all those vacuous prior French & International Premiers. He gladly entertained the Fascism that was internet censorship. Yes, he took it from behind & the ‘Shadowers’ were the delivery boys.

Then there was John Bluffoon – the US President. He had a 10-centimeter line of drool hanging from his mouth, and was not just asleep but was snoring & breaking wind periodically. This guy was now 85 and drooling constantly, forgetting where he was, coughing uncontrollably, falling over all the time, talking in total gibberish. He – just like the others – had been installed as a ‘Puppet’ by the ‘Shadowers’, and so had no real power whatsoever. He could not even order the flavour of ice cream he wanted – his wife did that for him. In this case the Shadowers had installed him via two methods: stuffed fabricated ballots & and electronic voter machine fraud. Bluffoon’s presidential ‘win’ this second time around was successfully stolen from the real winner, the incumbent President – Don Trumpf. The Shadowers had redeemed themselves – the leader of the ‘free world’ was as per usual their Puppet, and they the Puppet Masters.

Before his presidency, Trumpf was a successful businessman & TV star – he was one of the most recognisable faces on the planet, known for his persuasion and supreme confidence – if not also a likable blowhard. Late in life, as he’d already achieved everything else, Trumpf decided to make a run for President – mainly just for fun. He never expected to ‘get in’ – but the disaffected working classes had voted him in on the back of his utopian working-class vision he had espoused in his stump speeches on the campaign trail.

Come mid-election night it was clear Trumpf had gotten in ‘accidentally’ – the Shadowers had assumed this ‘TV Celeb’ big talker would be seen as a joke by the people – so they didn’t bother rigging the election. He wasn’t seen as a joke. So Trumpf had his 4 years as President – much the Shadower’s chagrin. The next time they corrected for their mistake and paid ‘mules’ to stuff thousands of unmonitored ballot mailboxes with ballots that were printed off in their tens of thousands. It took only 90,000 of these harvested Ballots – all sent to ‘swing state’ ballot boxes coupled with electronic voter machine hacking – to steal the election.

Smithski was amazed he had not been taken off the stage yet – but them again he was just an uninvited guest who had simply walked up to the mic & started talking. He had thrived off the unpredictability of the situation. He was not upset, but was emboldened by the several thousand drawn faces of the governmental & corporate toady globalist puppets in the crowd.

He had flustered the officials off stage – they were flipping frantically through their clipboards trying to find a name that did not exist.

Smithski then decided it was time to out the Shadow People’s ‘Grand Plan’ – that is the depopulation of planet Earth via an orchestrated Nuclear World War 3. There would after the War be only be 500 thousand people left. this comprised of the core shadow people – which was 1000 people – and their 4000 strong friends & entourage; the remaining 495 000 would be their slaves – slaves for work & slaves for adult pleasures & other casual entertainment. With this new post ww3 world would have their own personalised & updated version of the bible’s Sodom & Gomorrah tale.

In this dystopia of their choosing, the 1000 strong elite status Shadowers would freely rape pillage and sacrifice the slaves – often even drinking their blood. Smithski was about to expose it all, he had hacked into the ‘Inner 5’ Shadow leadership – he had gained access to the email which had the manifesto of the “Sodom & Gomorrah & Depopulate Master Plan”. He would kill the plan before its final battle was ready to be rolled out.

Then he heard a loud ‘pop’ sound – his head was thrown back, he hit the ground, he felt blood flee from his stricken body. He had been assassinated. He knew this would probably happen – but he had prepared for this situation. He had arranged a system whereby if he didn’t stop the process each day, an email would send to every active email address ever activated. Tomorrow the people, the ‘great unwashed’ would have the Shadowers ‘Depopulation Plan’ Manifesto – and they could mount a rebellion. they would organise a pre-emptive strike on the structure of this global satanic inspired organisation. With the last few seconds of life his mouth formed a sweet grin -that of a man that had had a good life & knew his legacy would unfold as planned.

Smithski suddenly was awoken from his lucid daydreaming by an almighty racket from the kitchen. It was the sound of pots & pans flying and raised voices. It was the power crazy tall middle-aged Dutchman in a slanging match with his long-term adversary – the middle-aged fat Cypriot. Words were exchanged & pots flew but never a fist did fly. Being older men, they were happy to use old world, now unacceptable terminology.

“I’ll kill you, you, fat wog Cypriot c*nt”

“Try it you Stamp collecting Dutch Imperialist Wanker”

“I will you ugly fat mechanic dog!”

“You’re just a Dutch fag Loser!”

“Says you, you mulatto-man fatso pig!”

It always ended just at the point when you’d expect it to get physical – the Cypriot who was smaller would self-preserve and skulk back to his shack, while the Dutchie would glide back to his room self-satisfied & triumphant once again. At heart they were good guys – like many of the middle-aged life & had just done them in. All they had left to interest them was petty share-house pecking order politics.

“One day I’ll leave this weird dump” Smithski thought. One day I’ll find a better paying job, a decent woman & move into a much better street. Of course, Smithski knew this probably would never happen – at heart he loved the culture of being an intellectual bohemian in the gutters of life – for this would allow the Walter Mitty lifestyle to live on forever. A ‘Walter Mitty Character’ would never actually live in a mansion on a hill with a trophy wife, two children and a golf club membership – and neither would Smithski. Never ever would he step down in his role as the aging bohemian perennial daydreamer – always dreaming of alternate realities where he finally and at long last – ‘comes good’.

Smithski turned to the next page of “The Great Depression: A Diary”, as usual he had almost completely forgotten the details his latest lucid day dream, he knew this was a good one – but he wasn’t really that worried, knew another was brewing just around the corner of a delightfully musty, bookshelf at a bookstore down a dark alleyway.

As he flipped the page, he thought to himself – “If there was a new Great Depression, I wouldn’t even notice the difference – my life would hardly change”. This realisation sent a happy grin across Smithski’s whiskered, already too lined, but none the less rustically handsome face. He kept on reading – after all, it was only two minutes to midnight, with still four hours to go in his usual read-a-thon.

He was about to turn the page when he saw something move outside his open window – he didn’t worry as Carlisle Street in Saint Kilda was always awash with garden variety shadowy figures – be they prostitutes, pimps, drunks or con men. These types were unsavoury but statistically mostly harmless. Over time Smithski had realised they weren’t really any different from anyone else he met these days – it was simply a matter of degree. Smithski knew the real ones to fear were those inside the system & who were seen to be doing well – those were the monsters in plain sight, the ones that danced so happily together amongst the shadows, frantically worshipping some unseen gods.

  • contact me at martinantonsmith@gmail.com